


The Drowning Man Trilogy

by irisbleufic



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-21
Updated: 2013-11-21
Packaged: 2018-01-02 05:33:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 26,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1053078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irisbleufic/pseuds/irisbleufic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some walk into the fire; others drown.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Drowning Man

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written and posted to LJ in August of 2010.

As always, what Sherlock knows is what he can see. And he sees—wait, _hears_ —

Startled, seething whispers on the catwalks above them, a susurrus of panic. Whistle-swift silenced gunshots as one by one the tremulous dots of red sway into blue-laved oblivion and vanish. Disbelief on Moriarty's sallow face as familiar footfalls echo down, spiraling around them in the hushed, humid chamber. Still _more_ disbelief, rat-nose knit to hateful brows as the bright-eyed demons resurrect, legion, in between them.

All of this in less space than it takes Sherlock to meet John's wide, haunted eyes.

"Why so astonished? I _told_ you that I worry about him, Doctor Watson."

Well, yes, and _that_. Mycroft. Ever prepared to crash the least fashionable of _soirées_.

Moriarty begins to giggle, shrouding them in high-pitched hysterics.

"Big brother to the rescue! Sherlock, _dearest_ Sherlock, is that _really_ fair?"

The madman draws a handgun out of thin air—well, out of his breast pocket, _damn_ , should have caught it—and fires once, dead on; _twice_ , low and to the left. Sherlock's eyes are still locked on John's, now disconsolate, and they know—

Chest and leg; leg and chest. This pain is indescribable, and they share it.

Even as Sherlock staggers, slips and falls almost to his knees, vision dimming, he can hear Mycroft shouting at his men, at Moriarty, at John. At _him_. Can hear Moriarty's victorious shrieking and know that it means the madman's gathered up the explosives, is hugging them to his chest as he oh-so-gracefully bows out. Knows that Mycroft is just enough of an idiot to order his men to stand down in order to spare the innocent majority. Even as he loses his balance and tilts sidelong into the pool. 

Yes: even John shouting his name, following him down. Even _this_.

He sees.

* * *

John wakes up back where he started: in hospital, with tubes and wires attached.

He doesn't need to lift the sheet to know that they've performed surgery, hopefully nothing too major, on his calf. The bullet had lodged itself deep, he'd felt that on impact, but not into the bone. Small mercies. At least the pain won't be psychosomatic anymore. Good job he hasn't binned the cane. Ella will try her best not to laugh.

And as for Sherlock—

_"Sherlock!" He drags himself to the pool's edge on all fours, leg and throat aflame. "Mycroft, he's down! **Sherlock!** " The water doesn't help, however warm; it stings his wound almost worse than the bullet did on entry. Worse than sand, worse than wind. _

_He dives._

_Sherlock rolls dead-weight beneath the waves, limbs splayed and pale eyes slitted, mouth open. John grabs him under the arms and heaves heavenward, tired and torn muscles screaming. They shatter the artificial light. He's gasping; Sherlock isn't._

John's last conscious moments break the surface, and he's sick.

The nurse across the room rushes to his side, fetches him a basin too late. John thanks her anyway, smiling weakly. He's dimly aware of a sickly-sweet smell that pervades the room, undershot with quicksilver disinfectant. There are other people beyond the discreet partitions, dozing and dying. The nurse picks a bouquet up off the side table and shows it to him. _From Sarah_. Christ, isn't it too soon for flowers?

And then he wonders if they're meant as condolences, and he's sick all over again.

* * *

_His sight gone, sound abandons him only at the last._

_Bubbles and current. Rush of wind and water? No. Another death for another time. Not now. Ragged breath and steady swaying. Weeds? Something to bear him up—no, some **one**. A lonely death for a different place. Not here._

Who was it that said time present and time past / are both perhaps present in time future? Norton? 

_Burnt, he thinks as the weeds-turned-arms lift him. Eliot. Burnt Norton. Four—_

_Quartets. Opening lines. He's no good at playing them._

_Air again. Wind and sand._

_John._

* * *

The day they discharge him, Mrs. Hudson is there with his cane, a bag of fresh clothes, and some flowers of her own. John leans to kiss her on the cheek, supported, cane in one hand and bouquet in the other. Sarah's had withered days ago, petals and pollen moldered to neglect. She hadn't attempted to visit him, as far as he knew. Harry had called, but he'd insisted she stay away. It was all over the news.

"You'd best not waste any time," says Mrs. Hudson, taking him by the arm. "Second floor. His visiting hours are _very_ limited. I think that horrible brother of his has something to do with it. I don't trust those government types."

John has known for several days now that Sherlock is not dead. Still, he's hearing it as if for the first time, disbelieving. But no: he'd heard it from the nurse right after he'd been sick a second time, and he'd heard it from the telly, and again, later, from Harry. _What's this about you and that detective, then? Lucky thing he lived._

He'd hung up on her.

"I've got to be going," continued Mrs. Hudson. "If you get lost, just ask one of those lovely nurses. Oh—and don't worry about the family restriction, love, I've sorted you out. If anybody gives you trouble, you just wave those papers under their nose."

John blinks. "Papers? I don't understand."

"In the bag, dear," says Mrs. Hudson. "I'll see you later. Make you a spot of supper."

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," John says, and watches her go. He rummages in the bag and finds several folded, stapled sheets of A4. It's a copy of the lease, one that never existed. It's in both of their names, not just Sherlock's.

_What's this about you and that detective, then?_

Oh, God. Between Mrs. Hudson and Mycroft, the entirety of London must be thinking—

Gossip, forgery, and gloss. All so he can see Sherlock again. _See him_.

John turns in the direction of the lifts and doesn't look back.

* * *

Sherlock is bored.

On waking, the first thing he'd demanded was a copy of the complete works of T.S. Eliot, because bloody _hell_ those lines were going to bug him till he'd put them in their place. _There_. Opening lines of _Four Quartets_ , part the first: _Burnt Norton_. He hadn't been, as John is often fond of saying, making shit up. Whatever else he may have imagined out in the deep, lost in the drowning, he hadn't imagined this.

Hadn't imagined _John_.

Sherlock closes his eyes, the book, and thanks the nurse in advance for that magic shot in the upper arm, _right_ there, that makes the nausea go away. His vision swims drowsily. He asks her how much he owes her for the book, and surely she ought to know better than to buy from Waterstones. Secondhand, for crying out loud.

"I told you yesterday," she says, sounding vaguely worried. "Six quid. Remember?"

"Ah, yes. _Thanksss_. And, by the way, have you seen John?"

"Oh," says the nurse, as if remembering something. "John Watson, that soldier bloke? Your brother mentioned you might ask after him. He's fine. Shot in the leg, but fine."

" _Ex_ -soldier," Sherlock corrects her, disdain flaring beneath the dull ache in his chest.

Quartets. Four of them. He's too drugged to do a damned thing about any of it.

Even about John, who had better get his brave, stupid arse out of bed first.

* * *

Through a haze of unbidden tears ( _not blue this time; no, not ever again blue; not at any time or in any place_ ), John catches his first glimpse of Sherlock since the pool. He's drugged stupid, that much is clear, and hugging a brown paperback with the telltale lower-spine mark of Faber & Faber to his chest ( _he does so love his books_ ).

"Bit of light reading?" John asks, bracing himself with both cane and unconvincing smile. He sets the plastic Tesco bag full of clothes and ( _uneeded; none would dare doubt his claim now or under any confluence of stars_ ) legally binding documents ( _his signature next to Sherlock's: a forgery and a gloss, but no less true_ ) down and hobbles up to Sherlock's side. "What the hell is this?" John plucks at the book, ignoring the single tear that escapes his right eye's orbit. "Poetry? Eliot. _Hm_."

John might have read _Prufrock_ for his A-levels ( _till human voices wake us—_ )

"Couldn't get the bloody stuff out of my head," says Sherlock, groggily.

"Can't imagine why," John replies, smiling again, although in truth he _really_ can't.

"I can see why creatures of lesser intelligence claim to have near-death experiences," Sherlock says with a fierce frown. "The brain becomes muddled for lack of oxygen. Grasps at weeds—I mean, straws. Dredges up inconsequential nonsense."

"Sherlock, you made one of the staff go buy you that book. It meant _something_. Nothing that comes out of your brain is meaningless. I expect it could've been quoting _Old Possum's Book of Practical Cats_ at you and it still would have been, I don't know, symbolic of the pivotal clue in some case you turned down last week."

"Not Minsk," says Sherlock, thinly. He draws the book across his throat. "Hanged."

"More's the pity," John says, tugging the book out of Sherlock's hand. "Speaking of grasping at straws, I know this might not be a great time to ask, but, then again, I might never have you at my disposal in such an amusing altered state ever again—"

Sherlock raises his eyebrows comically.

"—oh, really, I don't want to know. As I was saying. Surely forgers aren't any more precise than they need to be. How did you know the artist intended one star to be recognizable amidst all the others in that painting, anyway?"

Sherlock shrugs, lips slightly upturned. "I didn't. I was bluffing."

John considers this for a few seconds, realizing Sherlock is too doped to be lying.

" _Ah_. Well. Good thing Moriarty didn't call your bluff."

"Of course he didn't, the shrill-voiced moron. He'd have believed me if I'd said it was the moon."

John decides to take a risk. "You... _do_ know what the moon goes 'round, right?"

When Sherlock takes an ineffectual swipe at him, John catches his hand.

"Piss off. You wanker. How'd you get in here? Mycroft's security is tighter than his—"

"Thank you _very_ much for that," John says, folding Sherlock's hand between his own. It's warm and real, solid. Not gunsmoke, not siren-song ( _and his, perhaps, to have and to hold; neither gossip, nor gloss_ ). "If you'd really like to know, Mrs. Hudson produced papers to... _um_. Buy my passage. Look, you forged my signature on them; you should know. It's not as if I had to show anybody, though."

"Knew those would come in handy," murmurs Sherlock. His eyes are fixed on John's hands enfolding his own. Not slitted anymore. Glazed, maybe, but awake.

"Listen, about this whole strung-out and stroppy routine you've been pulling lately? It's got to go. Bullets cost money, you know, and your brother's only got one set of eardrums. Cut your poor violin some slack. Mycroft saved our lives."

Sherlock's eyes darken with some memory: shrillness, perhaps. Surfacing—

_—from their mouths' underwater joining, did it happen once or is it happening **now** —_

"Come back to me," John says against Sherlock's parted lips.

* * *

And he does. He _sees_.

Here and behind them, now and before.

Even this.


	2. Harbor

The night before, John can't sleep.

He almost wishes he could say it's the pain in his leg, which is healing nicely, but that isn't true. He's grown so accustomed to pain, _any_ kind of physical duress, that he's accepted it as a fact of his existence. He hasn't taken any painkillers for days—not because they have no effect, but because he has preferred to face Sherlock with a clear head during their daily visits. The cab fares he's run up between Baker Street and the hospital have been extraordinary, but then, Mycroft has been paying.

Tomorrow morning, he'll take one last trip, and Sherlock will return with him.

Keeping Sherlock confined to bed for three weeks, one of the nurses had told him, wouldn't have been possible without John's presence. As it was, he'd been a holy terror during the hours when John _had_ been there, never mind the hours when he'd been absent. And they couldn't have kept him drugged indefinitely. As it was, Sherlock had adapted to the point where wandering the halls soundlessly after dark with the morphine drip still attached had become a regular occurrence. A night watchman had caught him running some kind of experiment in the mortuary. John hadn't had the nerve to ask _what_ , precisely, the damages were. Sherlock hadn't elaborated.

John shifts on his mattress, cursing the elusiveness of sleep.

Sherlock's nocturnal wanderings aren't the only thing they haven't been talking about.

* * *

Sherlock stays in bed only because John had made him promise not to cause trouble on his last night. Granted, John's idea of _trouble_ is somewhat far-fetched.

Even after his condition had stabilized, they'd kept him confined to a private room. Partly Mycroft's doing, he had suspected ( _throw money at the problem until it goes away_ ) and partly John's ( _he'll be happier left alone, and so will the people who won't have to put up with him_ ). If they'd let him be put in a room with other patients, he'd at least have had plenty of environmental data to keep himself occupied. It was no fault of his own that he'd found it necessary to roam further afield in search of work.

Idly, Sherlock reaches out through the darkness and snags his book off the table.

He _does_ , in fact, have a problem to solve that doesn't require a corpse or chemical compounds. He hadn't initially considered it a problem, not least because he'd been pumped full of so many different substances at the time of the incident that he'd been incapable of thinking before he acted. Not that he'd particularly _wanted_ to think about it anyway. He'd almost died. He'd been entitled to some kind of compensation.

Sherlock presses the spine of _T.S. Eliot: Collected Poems 1909-1962_ to his lips.

He wants to kiss John Watson again before an even greater problem engulfs him.

* * *

Sherlock is already in the lobby when John arrives: sat in a wheelchair, covered in a blanket. He offers John a thin, but genuine smile, eyes manic with pent-up mischief.

"At least it's not bright orange this time," John observes. "Ready to go?"

"Not quite," says one of the nurses, Saleema, of whom John has grown quite fond thanks to her masterfully no-nonsense approach to handling Sherlock. She's carrying a vase of flowers so showy that it nearly obscures her face. "These just arrived," she explains, breathless. "Will you be able to manage getting them home?"

"Let's see," John says, detaching the card. "At a guess, they're from Scotland Yard—"

"No," Sherlock replies, deadpan, as if he's already worked it out. "Even worse."

 

_Couldn't very well send you off home  
without a token of affection, could I?_

_(Oh, and your little dog, too.)_

_—M._

 

"Burn them," says John, fiercely, crumpling the card as he hands the bouquet back.

"Let me see that," says Sherlock, tugging on John's sleeve.

"No," John responds, taking hold of Sherlock's hand in order to still it. "Pardon. You needn't do anything so drastic," he says, turning back to Saleema. "Give them to Mrs. Dodd. She was in the bed to my left. Charming pensioner lady with lavender hair."

"Keep them," suggests Sherlock, unexpectedly. "You've been a great help."

"Well, I—" Saleema looks flustered, but she collects herself quickly. "I may not be allowed to, but if Mrs. Dodd doesn't want them, I'm sure I can always find someone. I'm guessing they're from a party whose attention isn't...welcome?"

"His secret admirers have got a bit out of hand," John explains. "Thank you, yes, you've been amazing. We'll be back for that check-up in a week or so."

"I want to _see_ ," Sherlock mutters as another attendant pushes him out the door.

"Not a chance," John says, quickening his limp. Their cab is waiting.

* * *

Sherlock manages to tease the card from John's coat pocket during the fifteen-minute cab ride home. This is accomplished primarily through pretending to be asleep on John's shoulder, with one arm thrown across John's lap and curled around his waist. The result is that John is too flustered to pay attention to Sherlock's fingers, what when he's occupied with worrying about the rest of him. John finally relaxes about halfway through the journey, resting his cheek against the top of Sherlock's head.

On the one hand, it's very pleasant. Curious, Sherlock noses his way inside John's collar, breathing warmly against John's neck. John shivers slightly, his possessive hold on Sherlock's elbow tightening. It won't be difficult to get what he wants, Sherlock realizes, not when John is still clearly as preoccupied with the incident as he is. How long will it take, Sherlock wonders, for conditions to favor a repeat attempt? Mrs. Hudson won't give them any breathing space for at least a fortnight. Sherlock also grudgingly recognizes that he's still very weak. John isn't at his best, either.

The moment is one of almost perfect silence until the cab driver speaks

"Sir, you may want to wake your—" he hesitates politely "—friend. We're there."

"That won't be necessary," Sherlock says, straightening in his seat. The stab of pain is unexpected enough that he hisses with it, swaying forward. John steadies him.

"It's straight to bed with you," John says, shoving twenty quid in the driver's direction as they pull up to the curb. "If you're tired enough to fall asleep, you need rest."

"Sofa," Sherlock counters, reaching to open his door, but John stops him.

"Bed," he says when he's finally around the other side and gets the door for him. If Sherlock doesn't think about it too hard, it's almost funny, how quickly John can move with a cane. "We at least know you can walk. Come on."

"Of course I can," says Sherlock, taking John's hand. "See? Now, the sofa—"

"Is not where you're going," John snaps, waving to the driver as he pulls away.

Being helped up the stairs by a man who needs help up the stairs himself is, in fact, _extremely_ funny. When they reach the top, Mrs. Hudson is waiting for them.

It's only later, once John has practically tucked him in ( _he'd leaned close for an instant, and Sherlock had fleetingly thought—but no_ ), that Sherlock manages to fully investigate Moriarty's note. Expensive ink, expensive card-stock, expensive flowers.

Such a pity, that the bastard's words are so cheap.

* * *

After such an uneventful homecoming, John would have liked to have thought that their troubles ( _aside from the madman at the door, waiting, waiting_ ) had subsided, at least for a little while. He'd got a decent night's sleep, and so, if he could believe his eyes, had Sherlock. Alas, they weren't out of the woods just yet.

Mrs. Hudson taps him hesitantly on the shoulder while he's in the midst of washing up the remnants of the breakfast tray he'd ended up sharing with Sherlock.

"I don't know if you've seen," she says, looking slightly pale, her eyes darting in the direction of the refrigerator, "but there's a... _well_..."

John closes his eyes and clenches his jaw. "Still there, is it?"

Mrs. Hudson nods miserably. "I thought letting him have the skull back would help!"

"I'll take care of it," John sighs, drying his hands on the nearest dish towel, which is covered in—well, to be fair, it isn't worth wondering. As he hesitantly cracks the refrigerator door, Mrs. Hudson flees. He understands instantly why.

" _Christ_! Sherlock!" he shouts, covering his nose with the dish towel. "One of your experiments has gone health-hazard. Where's your mobile?"

"Don't know!" Sherlock calls back. "Ring it!"

Five minutes after confiscating his own phone from beneath Sherlock's pillow, John follows the sound of Sherlock's into the living room. It's on the desk under a sock. It doesn't take him long to locate a number for the mortuary at Bart's.

"Sherlock!" Molly answers without preamble. "I've been—I mean, _we've_ been so—"

"How did you know? I mean, this isn't Sherlock, obviously, but it's his phone, so—"

"John," she says, a touch disappointed. "Hi. We can see all the numbers coming in."

"Right," John says. "Listen, about all of the...items Sherlock borrows from you on a regular basis, what does he usually do when he's done with them?"

"Brings them back a bit worse for wear."

"Ah. That's what I hoped you'd say, because there's a... _um_. In the fridge."

"That'll be Alan Turville's head. I'd wondered where it had got off to."

John shakes his head. "Well, listen—as you're already aware, we're both of us fairly incapacitated at the moment, and Mr. Turville is unfortunately not keeping very well."

"Ooh, right," Molly says. "Gotcha. I can drop by and collect him if you like."

"You're a star," John replies. "Have you got a moment now?"

"Well, I—"

"Sherlock runs a high risk of infection as it is." He's not above playing the guilt card.

"Right," Molly says. "I'll be there in ten."

Nine minutes and forty-two seconds later, John lets a masked, breathless Molly into the flat. She shoves a mask at him instantly and says, "Put this on." She holds up what looks like a garden-variety plastic cooler and a Sainsbury's bag full of highly specialized cleaning supplies, most of which John recognizes. "Right. Let's do this."

The job doesn't take long. Safely masked and gloved, John holds open the refrigerator door while Molly casually takes hold of the erstwhile Mr. Turville's hair and drops his head neatly in a large biohazard bag. From there, the bag goes into the cooler, and the real work begins when Molly proceeds to spend the next twenty minutes scrubbing out the entire fridge with one cleanser after another after another.

"To be honest, I'd just ask your landlady about getting a new fridge," she says, finally indicating that John should shut the door. "Failing that, I'd recommend keeping your food _very_ well sealed. Get some of those plastic containers with locking lids."

"Food?" John echoes. "What food?"

"Never mind," Molly sighs, finally removing her mask and gloves. She tosses them into the cooler, indicating that John can do the same. "That's that. Want me to advise him against stealing entire heads in future? Maybe stick with minor digits?"

"I'm not sure what good it would do," John admits, walking her to the door.

Molly hesitates for a moment on the threshold. "He isn't up for visitors, is he?"

"No," John lies. "Not at all. Still sleeping off painkillers, the poor sod."

Molly nods, but she isn't quite finished. She bites her lip before she speaks.

"A friend of mine who works as a nurse—I mean, she's not a gossip or anything—but she says that, over at the hospital, they're saying you and Sherlock are—"

John sighs, too exhausted to protest. "Can we not discuss this right now?"

"Okay," Molly says, donning the shell-shocked look that John has come to associate with Sherlock playing oblivious to her advances. "It was nice to see you, John."

"For what it's worth," John says, "I'm sorry."

"Guess Sherlock was right about him," Molly says, closing the door as she slips out.

"That wasn't at _all_ awkward," Sherlock observes loudly.

Fleetingly, John would like to smack him, but he settles for rapping his cane against the wall on his way back into the kitchen. He hunts down the dishcloth and picks up where he left off with the washing-up. "Have you heard?" he asks, raising his voice over the running tap. "Molly says we're officially an item now."

"Good," Sherlock says, sounding curiously satisfied. "It'll keep her from pestering me."

John finds that the urge to go in and kiss him lasts for a good long while.

* * *

Much though Sherlock is glad that John is the one attending to him, he doesn't look forward to these moments of tense, teeth-gritting discomfort. John insists on checking his dressings both morning and evening. Given that he hasn't been quite as strictly immobile as John would have liked in the four days since coming home, the consequence is all too frequently a fresh streak of blood on the gauze.

"You've got to stop this," John warns him, swabbing around the sutures as gingerly as he can. "I don't care if you insist you were playing sitting down."

"Music is therapeutic," Sherlock replies, distracting himself with the feel of John's other hand at his waist. It's strange to think that, before, John had never seen him in less than his pyjamas and dressing-gown. If John appreciates what he sees, his expression doesn't show it. As evidence, Sherlock is left classifying the manner in which John touches the parts of him yet uninjured: with reverent, restrained longing.

He closes his eyes until the new dressing is taped in place, predicting the exact points at which John's hands will settle. One splays tentatively at his ribcage, the other at his collarbone. Sherlock opens his eyes to exactly what he wants to see. John's brow is knit in concern, but his eyes are hazy with half-admitted want.

Unfortunate, that Sherlock's pride and John's hesitation can't seem to meet halfway.

"Sarah called," Sherlock says, fetching John's mobile from under his pillow. "She wanted to know if you'd got the flowers and if we were getting on all right. I said yes to both, though I told her she might want to avoid lilies next time. Your eyes are still slightly puffy from the pollen. Yes, John, you're allergic. Make a note of it."

Several emotions cross John's features, only one of which Sherlock isn't happy to see.

"Did she say anything else?" he asks.

"She wanted to drop by to say hello. I told her you haven't got anything on tomorrow."

At that, John looks positively furious. Sherlock fights the urge to smile. Instead, he goes with a slightly weary flutter of the eyes, a sag of the shoulders forward and inward. Shameless, but necessary. John's eyes fly wide, Sarah forgotten.

"What's the matter?" he asks. "Are you in pain, should I go fetch—"

"No, I'm fine," Sherlock says. "Just tired." He struggles with the dressing gown.

John tugs it back up onto his shoulders and wraps him in it snugly. "Lie down."

It gives Sherlock a slight thrill, hearing those words and finding that he doesn't mind obliging. John tugs the covers up almost to his chin, neglecting to realize that he's still sat on the edge of the bed until they catch on his knees. He sighs, reaching for his cane where it's propped against the wall. Sherlock reads hesitation in the gesture.

"Wait," Sherlock says. "This is going to sound daft, but would you mind—" Sherlock steels himself, hating the fact that he finds articulating his wishes difficult "—staying?"

John stares down at him for a few inscrutable seconds before leaning to switch off the light. Just as Sherlock resigns himself to the fact that John is probably about to walk out without so much as a good-night, the covers are lifted and the mattress sags. John settles himself beside Sherlock, his leg-dressings a soft, scratchy whisper against the fabric of Sherlock's pyjama-bottoms. He settles an arm carefully across Sherlock's waist, his fingers closing around Sherlock's wrist, thumb settling on the pulse-point. John's lips are a ghostly presence at Sherlock's cheekbone, his breath shallow.

Neither one of them says a word, which is how sleep finds them.

* * *

John wakes to an empty bed and the sound of voices in the kitchen.

Sherlock sounds unusually chipper, and Sarah—

 _Sarah_. John untangles himself from Sherlock's sheets and fumbles for his cane, hoping to God he doesn't look too unpresentable. As it is, he's in pyjama-bottoms and a ratty t-shirt. Sherlock's dressing-gown lies conveniently discarded at the foot of the bed. It's too big for him, but it's too late to be worrying about—

 _That_. Goddamn it.

Both Sherlock and Sarah stop what they're doing and stare, for very different reasons, John is sure. He pushes past Sarah's astonishment and Sherlock's amusement, taking the remaining seat at their small table. Sherlock appears to be fully dressed, although lacking his usual polish: jeans and a button-down blue shirt. _Jeans_. He does a double-take at that; he hadn't even known Sherlock _owned_ any.

"My only pair," Sherlock informs him, offering a steaming mug. "Tea?"

"Thank you," John says, flashing Sarah a chagrined smile. "Hello."

She laughs, more relaxed under the circumstances than John would have expected.

"Hello to you, too. Sherlock tells me you're catching up on some much-deserved sleep. This kitchen looks fabulous in comparison to the last time I saw it. Your dishes were approaching sentient. Unless that's Mrs. Hudson's doing—?"

"No," John says, taking a bracing sip of tea. "Nope, all me."

"I've been telling Sarah about your new hobbies," Sherlock explains. "Daring rescues. Housework. Forensics. You've become a veritable renaissance man."

"When can you spare him?" Sarah asks, and John isn't certain she's joking.

"Can't, I'm afraid," says Sherlock, patting his chest lightly. "I tend to leak."

"Oh, God," Sarah murmurs, breaching the chasm. "It must've been awful."

"No worse than the rest of what we've seen," John says, "and you would know."

"Yes, but none of us _actually_ got hurt," Sarah reminds him, cradling her tea. She squints at Sherlock abruptly. "Shouldn't you be taking it easy?"

"Yes," John says, rising. "Yes, as a matter of fact. Sherlock, _bed_."

"Sofa," he says, firmly, collecting his tea and biscuits before leaving the room.

John sinks back down in his seat, groaning. "Oh, I don't even..."

Unexpectedly, Sarah reaches across the table and takes his hand.

"Why didn't you tell me?" she asks, her voice strained, but not unkind.

"I really didn't think there was anything to tell," John admits, screwing his eyes shut. "Honestly, I didn't. I _still_ don't know if there's anything to tell. I swear to you."

"John," says Sarah, gently. "Unless I'm mistaken, you spent the night in his bed."

"Well, yes, there's that. I _did_ spend the night in his bed, but nothing happened."

Sarah gives him a dubious look, but it softens to one of pity in the face of his silence.

"John, _everything's_ happened."

"I can't argue with that," John sighed. "More tea?"

* * *

The door slams so forcefully that Sherlock's teeth rattle. He clutches his chest.

"That was quite a stunt you pulled earlier," says John, loudly, just having returned from his impromptu lunch with Sarah. "Fortunately, that's hardly the most painful this-is-over-and-yeah-we're-better-off-as-friends I've ever endured, so I suppose I should thank you for setting her at ease. Who knew you were such a charmer? _Sherlock_? Are you even listening to me?" By thump- _thumps_ , John is on the sixth stair.

"Yes," Sherlock says, turning the page. _IV. Death by Water: Phlebas the Phoenician, a fortnight dead, / forgot the cry of gulls, and the deep sea swell / and the profit and loss_. "I'm pleased to hear it was painless. Could have been worse."

John's bitter laughter accompanies his thump- _thumps_ up the next eight stairs.

"You should listen to yourself, Sherlock."

 _A current under sea / picked his bones in whispers_. "Should I?"

Thump- _thump_ , thump- _thump_ , thump- _thump_. "Unbelievable!"

"I fail to understand why you're upset." _As he rose and fell / he passed the stages of his age and youth / entering the whirlpool_. "I only gave you exactly what you wanted."

"Oh, and what was _that_?" John's standing in the doorway now, waiting.

Sherlock doesn't look up. _O you who turn the wheel and look to windward—_

"A daring escape, John. A way out."

John says nothing and stalks off into the kitchen, collects up dishes. The sink fills.

 _Consider Phlebas, who was once handsome and tall as you_.

Sherlock rises then, fearful of what he might find if he should follow.

* * *

There's no use pretending that he doesn't love Sherlock. 

John does. He bears him the deep, fierce, irrational love normally reserved for someone you've known since time out of mind—someone who, just for the fact of his _being there_ , you can't help but adore. The wanting him, though, is problematic. The _needing_ him. That's what's different this time, and it terrifies John beyond belief.

 _As does the thought of losing him_ , John thinks, nearly dropping Sherlock's mug.

Sherlock's long fingers steady his elbow, sending a jolt so palpable through him that he does, in fact, drop the mug. The handle splits off with a sickening _crack_. John can't find the voice to apologize, let alone ask Sherlock what on earth he's doing as he spins John around and pins him up against the damp sink-edge.

“I need you. Badly, and completely against my better judgement. Is that a crime?”

All of the air in John's lungs escapes him in a bark of laughter.

"Have you taken up mind-reading as well?" he asks, incredulous.

"I hardly need to hear your thoughts to know them," Sherlock says, and kisses John then and there, in the kitchen, tentative and open-mouthed and longing.

This time, John isn't foolish enough to let the moment pass. He wastes no time in rucking up Sherlock's shirt, letting his fingers skim tentatively across the gauze. No dampness. Perhaps there's no harm in letting him have his sofa after all. John tugs Sherlock down closer, deepening the kiss. Sherlock makes a soft, strangled sound, his fingers scrabbling at the edge of the sink. Mortified, John stops. He must be in pain.

"No," Sherlock says, breathless, his eyes veiled and wild. "Just—not here."

John laughs. “Sherlock, this kitchen has seen its fair share of _worse_ bodily fluids.”

“Still. Not a good place for it. Your leg. And I'd prefer to lie down.”

John's heart is in his throat. He can only nod, and lets Sherlock lead him back to where they started the day: folded together in his narrow bed, counting the hours till morning with each unconscious breath. For the first time in months, John hadn't dreamed. He undresses Sherlock carefully, pausing only when the job's finished.

"So," John murmurs, starting on his own buttons, "lie down."

Sherlock is paler and thinner than ever, but that, John knows, will change with time. He can't help but feel self-conscious as he settles beside Sherlock, this time without benefit of clothing or cover of darkness. Sherlock's breath hitches in his chest, and John is quick to lean and kiss him again, let his hand drift low over flat stomach and prominent hip-bone to ease an entirely different kind of pain. Sherlock twists under the first brush of John's fingers, turning to press against him with such force that John knows he'll find fresh blood when he checks the dressings later.

In the meantime, John holds Sherlock as still as he can, touching whatever he can reach with each slow, seething kiss until Sherlock arches against him with a muffled sob. It's not long until John follows, coaxed by Sherlock's sure hand.

John cleans them both once he's caught his breath, stroking Sherlock's flushed skin.

“I was thinking I might turn your room into a laboratory,” Sherlock ventures at length.

John stirs from his dozing just enough to prod at Sherlock's dressings. Damp.

“Why not turn _your_ room into a laboratory?” he asks, rummaging on the floor.

Sherlock sighs, put-upon, as John finds his kit. “Yours is cleaner.”

“My thoughts exactly," John replies, pulling the old gauze loose.

“ _Fine_ ," winces Sherlock. "Lab in my room, love nest in yours. Are we sorted?”

"Yes," John says, ignoring the blatant sarcasm, and silences him with a kiss.


	3. Profit and Loss

Sherlock wakes to find the world changed.

That's not to say that he doesn't remember the day before: far from it. As he blinks at the ceiling, slowly taking in the familiar details around him—cracked plaster, the scent of dust, Westminster stirring beyond the curtains—those other details, too, are filtered from his subconscious and into the foreground. The sink-edge slick beneath his already damp palms. John's scent. The illogical softness of his hair. Sheer _want_.

Sherlock curls nearer, closing his eyes. They'd spent the remainder of the day in Sherlock's bed, texting and bickering. Had take-away curry, scattered poppadom and pilau rice all through the sheets. Made love again. Checked their wounds. Slept.

The ease with which Sherlock had accepted this was unsettling.

He'd had a few run-ins at university. Sufficient to convince him that sex was messy and irrational, best left alone. He'd at least discovered that he had no interest in women. As for men, his life had allotted no space for such distractions.

Until he'd met John, apparently, whom he craved as unreservedly as air.

Sherlock rolls over so that he's half on top of John, snaking one leg across his hips. He thrusts lazily against him, pressing his parted lips to John's neck.

John wakes with a shiver, arms tightening around Sherlock's waist. He turns his head to kiss Sherlock's temple, curiously tender in spite of the urgency with which the rest of his body responds. "Read my mind," he murmurs, already breathless. "Again."

Sherlock hums, biting John's neck just hard enough to leave a mark.

* * *

"Hungry," says Sherlock, after, climbing over John and out of bed. "Are you coming?"

Sherlock had awakened not only with an interest in sex, but with the apparently urgent desire to eat. It might be the best morning of John's life. His mobile goes off.

"Who's texting you this early?" Sherlock asks, already halfway into his dressing-gown without John's assistance. "No one is allowed to text you this early but me."

"Let's find out," John says, opening the message.

 

_Congratulations on having  
achieved the impossible._

_MH_

 

Immediately, his paranoia seizes on the _M_ , and his heart splits in half at the prospect of the bastard having got his hands on their mobile numbers. Before his brain has time to sort out what the _H_ means, Sherlock grabs the phone off of him and fires back a distinctly annoyed reply. Oh. Of course. _M_ , in this case, is for Mycroft.

"Congratulations on having acquired the world's nosiest brother-in-law," Sherlock tells him, handing the phone back. As if he's only just noticed John's residual distress, he collapses back down on the mattress, wincing with the impact. From that point forward, it's debatable as to who's more concerned about whom, but John wins out with a thorough examination of Sherlock's dressings. No fresh blood for once. 

Sherlock swats his hand away and rearranges his dressing-gown. "If you're trying to seduce me again, that's definitely not the way to go about it. You might try beans on toast with a side of bacon. Or eggs. And orange juice. I _love_ orange juice."

"Sherlock," John says, somewhat disturbed that the text's implications seem to have caught up with him first, "does that mean while we were gone he—"

Sherlock's already on the rampage, tearing his way through the kitchen. John dashes to catch up, shouts, hobbles back to fetch his cane. So much for a good morning.

"That's exactly what it means," Sherlock mutters, busy tearing the light bulbs out of their lamps one by one. He finds nothing when he smashes them on the kitchen table and sifts through the fine scattering of glass. He storms back into the bedroom, and John's stomach lurches at the sound of the mattress being lifted from the bedsprings. So much for Sherlock's healing progress. There's a sickening rip. 

"We'll need a new mattress," he announces.

"We've got mine," John reminds him, collapsing into one of the kitchen chairs, struggling for breath. _Bugged_. Enemy intelligence. It's the kind of thing you worry about in the barracks, sure, but not in your own goddamned _flat_. No matter how much Mycroft has done for them and will doubtless continue to do for them, he can't seem to stop thinking of the man as just what he first claimed to be: Sherlock's nemesis.

" _Oh_!" exclaims Sherlock, abruptly, striding out of the bedroom, past John, and back into the living room. "You clever fucking _bastard_ , I know _exactly_ —" 

John rises cautiously and makes his way to the doorway to find out what, exactly, Sherlock knows. He's tapping the skull at intervals, shaking it occasionally to listen for errant rattles. He finally settles for prising the spring-hinged jaw wide and yanking out one of the bottom back molars. "Gotcha," he says, brandishing the tooth vindictively.

"Next time we're in hospital, I'm going to tell Mrs. Hudson to hire a security guard," John sighs, slumping against the wall. "Sherlock, _breakfast_. Much though I appreciate the importance of this exercise, the toast won't make itself."

"Yes, breakfast would be lovely," Sherlock says, tucking the tooth in his dressing-gown pocket. As an afterthought, he opens his pocket and loudly confides, "Speaking of which, I'd keep an eye out. That new intern has been spitting in your coffee."

"You had best get rid of that," John points out, ushering Sherlock back into the kitchen. "Flush it down the toilet. Toss it in the Thames. I don't care, just bin it."

"I was thinking I might plant it on Lestrade next time we're unfortunate enough to see him," Sherlock whispers conspiratorially, forcing John back down into his chair. "I hope you enjoy your bacon thoroughly burnt. I can't cook worth a damn."

As Sherlock rummages in their sparsely stocked refrigerator, John can't help but grin.

"What _did_ you text back?" he asks.

"A reminder," Sherlock says, speaking directly into his pocket, "that he now owes me five hundred quid. What the hell, let's make it a thousand. That wasn't a cheap mattress, and it's not even ours. Just look at how Mrs. Hudson reacted to the wall."

John sets his chin in his palm, resigned, and watches Sherlock crack eggs.

* * *

Two hours and discovering precisely how difficult it is to share their small shower later, Sherlock and John are sitting in Lestrade's office. John's posture alone is enough to suggest that he's not pleased that Sherlock's first outing in a week isn't a leisurely stroll through St. James's Park, but he's tactful enough to sit quietly in his chair, especially since Donovan is perched on the edge of Lestrade's desk with her arms tightly folded, waiting to pounce. Sherlock flashes her a taut smile.

"It was good of you to come," Lestrade says. "I would've taken your statements sooner, but that brother of yours put a lot of pressure on us where waiting till you were fully recovered was concerned." He pauses. "You— _are_ fully recovered?"

"Of course," replies Sherlock, in the precise instant that John says, "No."

Donovan shakes her head smugly. "Saw that one coming."

"You," Lestrade says, tapping her shoulder with somebody's file. "Off the desk."

Sherlock carefully masks the pleasure he takes in watching her sulk to one side.

Tactfully, John clears his throat. "Have we given you enough?"

"Christ," Lestrade says, covering his eyes with one hand. "Not nearly. The man is a _ghost_. He didn't leave a damned thing behind. And as for those snipers your brother's men so efficiently sorted out, the survivors have as little to say as the deceased."

"Survivors?" John asks, as if it hadn't occurred to him there had even been casualties.

Unthinking, Sherlock bridges the gap between the arms of their chairs and sets his hand on John's arm. "Creatures like Moriarty command unflinching loyalty."

Donovan scoffs. "You would know, wouldn't you?"

"If you can't keep your insights to yourself," Lestrade tells her, "feel free to leave."

"Wouldn't miss this for the world," she responds, drawing thumb and index finger across her lips. And just then—Sherlock catches the very instant, watches the slow, inexorable, _fascinated_ horror rise in her glance—she notices Sherlock's hand.

John freezes slightly. "The explosives would've been a big help, I'm sure."

"Yes, but your testimony is an even _bigger_ help, so it's a good job you're intact."

Sherlock is grateful for that. Lestrade may be sentimental, but right now, it's forgivable. In the instance of John's survival, it is _absolutely forgivable_.

"Nothing else to add, Sherlock?" Lestrade prompts, as if he's waiting for the reveal.

"I'm afraid not," says Sherlock, shrugging. He lets his fingers curl around John's wrist ever so slightly, and the apoplectic widening of Sally's eyes is a thing of beauty and a joy forever. "It would seem I've met my match."

Sally starts coughing and has to turn around, mouth covered. She's a terrible actress.

"Excuse me," Lestrade says, rising. "Coffee for me, water for her. Gentlemen?"

"No thanks," says Sherlock, brightly.

"I'm dying for a cup of tea," says John, like he means it.

Sally unfolds as the office door slams shut in Lestrade's wake, coughing fit gone as quickly as it had come. She stares at Sherlock first, then at John, back-and-forth-back-and-forth until Sherlock is certain she'll keel over from sheer dizziness. John is giving him that _what-are-you-doing?_ warning look, but Sherlock ignores it.

"You're having me on, aren't you?" says Sally, finally. "Both of you."

John frowns. "I'm sure I don't follow."

Sherlock leans in so close that his lips brush John's earlobe, leaving no room for any doubt as he murmurs, "Of course you do." As if on cue, John turns faintly pink.

"Oh _God_ ," Donovan shouts, covering her eyes. "Not what I had in mind when I suggested you take up a new hobby! Just, _no_. Fishing, John. _Fishing_."

"Now you know how I felt at the mere thought of you and Anderson. Ugly, isn't it?"

John's resting his head on his free hand, staring at the floor. Sherlock frowns.

" _Augh_!" Sally stumbles towards the door just as Lestrade returns with drinks. "The freak-show's all yours," she tells him, pushing past. " _All_ yours."

"Dare I ask?" Lestrade ventures, but it isn't two seconds before an odd look crosses his features. "No, wait, never mind. Forget I said that. Are you absolutely _certain_ there isn't anything you're neglecting to tell me? Because, if there is, you had better hope that all I find in your flat are prescription painkillers."

John's hand beneath Sherlock's clenches and unclenches in frustration.

"Absolutely," Sherlock says, just as his mobile beeps. He fumbles in his pocket.

 

_Much though I'm certain you've  
missed your little chats with the DI,  
I'd appreciate it if you came home._

_Now._

_MH_

 

"That'll be Himself himself," John says, disentangling his hand from Sherlock's, rising. "Thank you for your time," he says to Lestrade with a tight nod, limping resolutely forward. He glances back over his shoulder at Sherlock, partly relieved and partly broadcasting deep, unrelenting disgruntlement. "Are you coming?"

"Yes," Sherlock says, absently, rushing ahead to get the door.

"You know where to find us," Lestrade says, but they're already gone.

"What is it this time?" he demands, disliking the arrogant set of John's chin. "Oh, I _see_. Disappointment. You don't appreciate the fact I couldn't keep from rising to the occasion. Well, let me tell you something: I've been wanting to get back at her for cluttering my head with unwanted images for _months_. Forgive me. I couldn't—"

"Next time, reconsider," John snaps, irritated that Sherlock's hit the lift button for him.

"I'm _sorry_ ," Sherlock grits out, resenting each syllable, taking John by the shoulders as soon as the lift door is shut. Pain flares in his chest, too fierce to ignore. He reels with it, with the lift's sickening lurch downward, and John steadies him.

"Just...slowly, please," he says, touching Sherlock's cheek. "That's all I'm asking."

Sherlock nods, recovering himself. "Right," he says. "Fine."

The lift grinds to a halt and the door opens. Awful and familiar, the astonished stutter that meets them. The entire lobby suffers for its utterance. John winces.

"Anderson," Sherlock sighs, struggling to keep his voice cordial. "Good morning."

"Not a good time," John says, hustling Sherlock past before Anderson can respond.

Air and sunlight, blinding blue. Too much. His knees give.

Somehow—with Anderson's help, _fuck_ —John gets him into the waiting car.

* * *

Both Mrs. Hudson and Mycroft are waiting outside the flat when they arrive.

"Easy," John murmurs, helping Sherlock out of the car. No sooner had they pulled away from the Yard than John had forced a few Co-codamol tablets on him.

"Oh, _Sherlock_ ," fusses Mrs. Hudson, rushing to flank him on the opposite side. "I knew you weren't up to leaving the house just yet. Why won't you listen?"

"Our testimony was at least two weeks overdue, if not more," Sherlock grouses, avoiding his brother's chiding gaze. They all file into the flat, Mrs. Hudson leading the way up the stairs, followed by John, aiding Sherlock as best he can given he's still using the cane, followed by Mycroft, who up until now has not said a word.

"You do, at least, seem genuinely concerned for the public in this case," he offers, hovering in the doorway as Mrs. Hudson helps John peel Sherlock out of his coat and settle him on the sofa. "I believe John's been a good influence on you."

"Oh, piss off," Sherlock sighs, his face gone alarmingly pale. "I want some tea."

"Of course," John says, but Mrs. Hudson lays a hand on his shoulder.

"I'll see to it, dear. You sit down with Sherlock and rest."

Mycroft takes his customary place in the chair to their right, peeling off his gloves.

"I do hope you realize the severity of this situation," he says.

"Which part of it?" Sherlock asks. "That there's a well-dressed, mentally unstable criminal mastermind on the loose, or the fact that I've ripped out all of your precious little surveillance...things. Bugs. Those," he says, dismissively, waving his hand. John realizes that the painkillers are beginning to kick in with a vengeance.

"Actually, yes," John says. "I do."

"Now that the two of you are—" Mycroft inclines his head meaningfully, as if mindful of Mrs. Hudson pottering around the kitchen "—Moriarty will redouble his efforts."

Sherlock's eyes, slightly hazy, flare with anger.

"But he'll make it more complicated," John says. "He won't go the obvious route of strapping a bomb to me this time. That would be an insult to Sherlock's intelligence."

"Never mind that it would add insult to injury," says Sherlock, sounding as close to miserable as John's ever heard him. "He'd probably enjoy that, so let's not rule it out."

Instinctively, John takes his hand. When Sherlock flinches, he experiences a fleeting moment of remorse: yes, this is how he'd felt when Sherlock had done the very same thing under Donovan's scrutiny. Mycroft, however, doesn't seem to notice.

"I'm sending you out of the country," he says without preamble. "Not that I'm foolish enough to think that it will keep Moriarty off your trail for long, but it might at least throw him off balance. He'll be in hiding for a bit longer, riding out Lestrade's investigation, which will fail, and regrouping his resources, which are legion."

"How comforting you are," says Sherlock, acidly, slumping against John's shoulder.

"Tea's ready, loves," says Mrs. Hudson, bearing in a tray. She sets it on the coffee table in front of John and Sherlock. "I'll just leave you boys to it, then."

"Thank you," says Mycroft, helping himself to a mug.

"Best lay off the sugar," Sherlock says derisively. "The milk, too. It's not skimmed."

"For how long?" John asks, busy preparing Sherlock's tea. Black, three sugars. He likes it sweeter than he takes his coffee. He wraps Sherlock's hand around the mug, letting their thumbs brush as he lets go. Sherlock gives him a grateful look.

"Until I tell you to come back," Mycroft says, expression neutral as he watches them.

"Charming," Sherlock says, taking an unsteady sip of his tea. "Where?"

Mycroft withdraws a set of plane tickets from his coat. "These are your plane tickets to Spain. You won't be using them. Nonetheless, seventy-two hours from now, you will check into a bed and breakfast in an obscure Catalonian village."

"That's one expensive red herring," John says, pouring himself some tea. "Much appreciated. Now, where are we _actually_ going?"

Sherlock remains silent, staring into his mug, as if he's working on a problem.

Mycroft hands John a leather portfolio. Inside, he finds two fake passports—the faces are right, but the names are wrong—and a set of ferry tickets in the same names.

"You have forty-eight hours in which to rest, pack, and get on your way."

"From Hell, Hull, and Halifax, good Lord deliver us," Sherlock murmurs vaguely.

John blinks at him. He's never met anyone outside the military who knows the adage.

"Have you ever been to Hull?" asks Sherlock. "It's wretched. We'll die of boredom."

"Don't be ridiculous," says Mycroft, distinctly insulted. "I'm sending you from Dover."

"Hull would have been less conspicuous. We had better be headed for Amsterdam."

"Ah, no," John says, squinting at the tickets. "Zeebrugge. Belgium."

"You're sending us on a honeymoon to _Bruges_?" Sherlock bursts out, splashing a bit of tea down the side of his mug. "Charming, Mycroft. Assuming Moriarty's not a fan of black-comedy Existentialist cinema, he'll never see _that_ one coming!"

John stares at him, impressed. "I didn't know you knew—"

"Just because I don't tend to watch films doesn't mean I don't keep up."

Mycroft is grinning, as if they've completely missed the joke.

"You're thinking _Vicky Cristina Barcelona_ is more his speed," John says, grinning back.

"You are both insufferable idiots," Sherlock says, over-enunciating his speech. "Go away. But not you," he adds, grabbing hold of John's hand as if he's afraid he might fall off the couch. His grip on the mug is perilously loose.

"I suggest you put him to bed," Mycroft tells John, rising. "I'll see myself out."

"Yeah, that's probably for the best," John says. "Thanks."

" _Out_!" yells Sherlock, a mocking echo of his brother's last word.

They run into Mrs. Hudson briefly in the hallway. As John meets her eyes, she bites her lip, hurrying off to clean up the remnants of their tea. There's a light sheen of sweat on Sherlock's forehead by the time they reach John's bedroom.

"Shit," John says, stripping Sherlock out of his shirt and pressing him to sit down on the mattress. "I gave you too much. Two would've been enough," he says, reaching for Sherlock's waistband. His hand's smacked away with so much force that his knuckles sting with reddened fury. "Sherlock, you're overheating—"

"Slowly? _Slowly_? _You_ were the one who kissed me right out in the open where Saleema could see! No wonder Molly and the rest of Bart's knew inside a week."

John feels his chest cave in on itself. "I just...look, when I said that earlier, I meant it might not have been wise to do what you did in front of somebody whose chief hobby is antagonizing us. _That's_ what I'm saying."

"Oh. So, by your logic _and_ example, displays of affection, whether conscious or unconscious, are only acceptable in front of total strangers?"

"Saleema's not a stranger!" John shouts, resisting the urge to tear his hair out.

"She was to you at the time," says Sherlock, venomously, removing his trousers with difficulty. He tosses them at John. "What if I'd minded? For all you knew, I did."

John doesn't have an answer to that.

"I'm sorry," he says, finally, after a long moment of silence. "I shouldn't have been so careless. Shouldn't have taken advantage of the situation. I should've asked."

Sherlock sighs and shakes his head. "The drugs had me thinking anything that crossed my mind was a good idea, even convincing Saleema to go buy me that book."

Hesitantly, John props his cane against the night-stand and lowers himself onto the mattress beside Sherlock. "Are you glad you did?" he asks, settling closer to Sherlock when he realizes he's not about to be knocked to the floor.

Sherlock's head is tilted back against the wall, his eyes shut. "Of course."

"And, ah...that I kissed you?"

"Does Earth orbit the sun?"

"Is that a trick question?"

"No," Sherlock says, insinuating himself under John's arm, folding up against his side with as much ease as he'd folded himself into one corner of the sofa during their argument over Mr. Turville's head all those weeks ago. "And yes."

When John kisses him on the mouth, apologetic, Sherlock doesn't resist. He doesn't respond, either, but lets his jaw go slightly slack as John deepens the kiss—which John finds more disturbing than Sherlock's ambiguous answer.

"I'm tired," he says, pushing John away at length.

John rises, numbly. "That'll be the codeine. I'll let you sleep."

* * *

When Sherlock wakes, it's the middle of the night—midnight, perhaps, or he judges by a glance at the blinds—and he isn't alone. John has placed a chair at the foot of the bed and has fallen asleep in it, his head lolling precariously to one side.

Sherlock's throat tightens. It's a sensation to which he's distinctly unaccustomed.

"Hey," John whispers, snapping awake. Light sleeper, of course. "Do you need—"

"Yes," Sherlock says, crawling to the foot of the bed, reaching out to grab his arm.

"Wait—what are you— _oof_."

It isn't the most graceful thing Sherlock's ever done, but John ends up sprawled on top of him, his leg seemingly unaffected. Sherlock reaches down and runs his fingertips from John's ankle up to his knee, from there to the back of his thigh, teasing. John catches Sherlock's hand and holds it still, although his grasp lacks resolve.

"Sleep," John reminds him. "We've got a long couple of days ahead of us."

"You're no fun," Sherlock sighs, letting his head hit the pillow. "And I still think this room would make a better laboratory. Slightly more space, a better view—"

"Since when do you care what's out the window? By the way, you're getting an entirely separate refrigerator to put in _your_ room once the lab conversion's complete. I won't stand for any more body parts mingling with my supper."

"Unexpected," Sherlock said, wrapping his arms around John's waist. "That's partly why I wasn't averse to the prospect of sharing a flat with you."

John pauses in the midst of pressing a kiss to Sherlock's forehead.

"I beg your pardon?"

"You were a soldier. You should be used to it."

John peers at him curiously. "Used to what?"

"Random bits of anatomy lying about," Sherlock says, shrugging. Idly, he realizes they've only ever lain side-to-side for fear of aggravating Sherlock's injury. John is pleasantly heavy, one of his thighs resting between Sherlock's legs.

"Soldier doesn't equal machine," says John, gravely. "Those were _people_."

"So were the men you shot."

"Yeah, in self-defense." John closes his eyes, breathes out. "Usually."

Sherlock considers this. " _Usually_."

Just then, the pillow vibrates with alarming force. John groans and fishes around under it until he's located his mobile. "Why can't you just use your own like a normal person?" he asks, opening the text message. He grimaces at it. Sherlock takes the mobile off of him and squints at the screen. Predictable.

 

_I hate to be the bringer of bad  
news, but you missed one._

_Sleep._

_MH_

 

Sherlock tosses the phone on the floor. Of _course_. John's room. He hadn't thought to search it. If he'd only previously suspected that this attachment might become a weakness, he now knows that it's too late. And that he doesn't care.

"Careful," John says, slumping against him. "You'll miss that if it breaks."

"We've got to go," Sherlock murmurs. "Haven't we? No choice in the matter."

"Yes, but not right now. Your brother's advice wouldn't go amiss."

"Can't," Sherlock says. "The codeine's worn off."

"Then I'll fetch you some more."

"No, you won't. You're too comfortable where you are, and also, you've latched onto the possibility that this careless intimacy means I've forgiven you."

John sighs, burying his face against Sherlock's neck. "Have you?"

"More or less," Sherlock replies, running his fingers through John's hair. He wonders if it's as oddly soothing for John as it is for him. "Are you still disappointed in me?"

"In retrospect, not really," John says, and Sherlock can feel John's smile against his skin. "That look on Donovan's face was priceless."

"Which one?" Sherlock muses. "There were so many to choose from."

"The first one," John replies. "True, though, they were all ace. Sherlock, I _will_ go and fetch your painkillers if you don't shut up and go back to sleep." 

John rolls off of him and to one side, tugging Sherlock's arm along. Odd, how satisfying it is to spoon up behind him, tug him in close, and simply _breathe_.

When Sherlock wakes, it's just after dawn, and John is still with him.

* * *

"This is a bad idea," John sighs, staring at the departures board. They're standing in St. Pancras, and it's half an hour until their Brussels-bound Eurostar leaves. Sherlock had booked the tickets in their fake-passport names and paid entirely in cash.

"On the contrary, crossing Mycroft is a _fantastic_ idea. His irritation amuses me."

"With any luck, he won't know we're here. Yet."

"I don't know about that," Sherlock says. "We'll have been followed."

"Cracking," John sighs, casting about them for a place to sit down. Sherlock, already a step ahead of him, takes him by the arm and leads him over to a row of chairs.

"Stay here," Sherlock says, handing over both his mobile phone and John's.

"Where are you going?" John demands.

"Coffee. It's too early for me to consider doing this uncaffeinated."

"I don't think we should split up," John says, grabbing his wrist. "Coffee can wait."

Sherlock considers this, unblinking, and sits down beside him. "So it can."

Just as John hands Sherlock back his mobile, it vibrates.

 

_I should hope John is still  
thoroughly disappointed._

_Someone is trailing you._

_MH_

 

"Shit," John mutters, but Sherlock is smiling.

"Spectacular! At least we'll have something to keep us occupied."

John feels compelled to point out that he's actually begun to look forward to spending some time alone with Sherlock in a place that isn't London. Their boarding announcement echoes through the almost deserted station. He holds his tongue.

Thanks to some passable tea and Sherlock's painkillers (his leg isn't holding up), John sleeps for most of the journey. Beneath the haze, he's aware of the train's unbelievable speed, of his bony pillow (Sherlock's unaffected shoulder), of Sherlock's steady breath, which smells of coffee and hastily consumed biscuits. He wakes briefly to realize that Sherlock's arm is around him. He can hear the soft click of mobile keys: Sherlock texting one-handed. John hopes Mycroft's giving him an eyeful.

They grab a quick bite to eat in Brussels station, earning a few spiteful looks in spite of Sherlock's flawless French. Language is a sensitive subject here, and Sherlock probably doesn't speak Flemish. That theory gets blown out of the water when Sherlock stops a train guard and fires off a string of halting, if competent syllables. He listens to the man's response, nods, and leads them in the opposite direction.

"As I suspected, there's been a track change."

"I won't ask, really," John replies. "But how'd you know he doesn't speak French?"

"Oh, he does," Sherlock says. "Nearly everyone here is trilingual, you'll find. That man, however, prefers not to. His distaste for those chattering French tourists just ahead of us was all the evidence I needed. I can't say as I blame him."

"Where'd you learn Flemish?"

"I Googled some basic phrases en route. Where else?"

John takes a deep breath. "Any sign of our stalker?"

"Stalk _ers_ ," Sherlock corrects him. "We mustn't forget Mycroft. No, nothing so far."

Then and there, John decides that Sherlock owes him something worth considerably _more_ than the five hundred pounds he'd won from Mycroft ( _strange, to imagine that spook losing a bet_ ) as soon as they're settled in at a decent hotel. At least John _hopes_ that Sherlock has a decent hotel in mind. For all he knows, Sherlock has an unsavory Belgian friend with a rat-trap of an establishment who owes him a few favors.

Sherlock's gloved fingers encircle his wrist as a train blows by them.

"Of _course_ I'll make it up to you," he says, slyly and sidelong. "There are quite a few things we haven't tried, and I've been contemplating one of them in particular."

John locks onto Sherlock's wrist in kind, leans heavily on his cane. 

Their train can't arrive soon enough.

* * *

As it turns out, the hotel _is_ decent. The _rez-de-chaussée_ is decorated in tasteful muted tones, beiges and off-whites with the occasional flash of blue. The proprietress is a sweet, fifty-something Continental version of Mrs. Hudson who chatters at Sherlock in the fastest French John has heard since that school trip to—

"Parisian?" he whispers to Sherlock. "Retired here. Scalps the tourists."

" _Parisienne_ ," Sherlock replies, flashing him the smile that John has come to recognize as praise. "Don't judge her _too_ harshly. Her husband ran off to Switzerland with her best friend five years ago. She still doesn't know what he did with the money."

"Keep your voice down," John mutters. "I'd like to stay on her good side."

Thérèse Reynaud gives them a quick, if unnecessary tour of the entire second floor before escorting them to their accommodation. Sherlock translates her rambling about the paintings on the walls a touch impatiently, sounding relieved when she turns the key stiffly in the lock. The room is larger than John had expected, with a private bathroom, one large window overlooking the alley and back entrance to the bar, and a queen-sized bed occupying most of the central space. So much for being discreet.

"Here," says Thérèse, unexpectedly switching to English as she hands the key to Sherlock, and then produces a second from her pocket and presses it into John's hand. "You will stay for—" she searches for the right words "—quite a while, yes?"

"For a while," John agrees, wondering how long Mycroft intends for them to remain abroad. "Thank you. We'll be very comfortable here. _Très confortable, merci_."

Sherlock takes her hand between his own and says something that sounds both eloquent and gracious. John finds himself curious as to whether Sherlock has this effect on all pensioners of the female persuasion, or if it's merely the lost and lonely ones who seem to think he's the sweetest, most upstanding young man on the planet, never mind his glee at the slightest hint of a murder or his penchant for slaughtering the violin. He hopes that Thérèse will be spared the worst of Sherlock's bad habits.

And, just like that, they're alone.

"Tiresome," Sherlock sighs, dumping their luggage at the foot of the bed. "What you've said is true, though: we ought to be very comfortable. It's warmer here than it's been at home, but not so warm that the mosquitoes will be a problem."

"Mosquitoes?" John echoes, struggling out of his shoes. He flops down on the bed, letting his cane drop where it stands, suspended for a moment as he lets go.

"Surely you know about the canals," Sherlock replies, draping his coat over the room's lone chair. "They call Bruges the Venice of the North. Incubation for insects and all sorts of micro-organisms. Add some heat, and it's absolutely atrocious by July."

"Hope we don't have to stay _that_ long," John says, sinking back against the pillows. 

He lets his eyes fall shut, taking in the soft sounds of Sherlock moving about the room. Retrieving John's shoes, taking them over to be set by the door. Removing his own. Padding over to the bed in his stocking feet. No, bare. He's removed his socks, too. John can hear the scrape of Sherlock's toenails against the duvet as he crawls onto the bed beside him, a warm, looming shadow. The gentleness of Sherlock's kiss is comforting, although the teeth now sunk in his lower lip suggest business.

"You're not going to fall asleep," he murmurs against John's mouth. "I forbid it."

"You'll have to make do with _preventing_ it," John responds. "I'm knackered."

Sherlock's meddling fingers are already plucking at his shirt buttons, undoing only the bottom few, drawing back each side of John's shirt to expose his belly. John cracks one eye, curious. Sherlock is staring down at his bellybutton with endearing intensity. Without warning, he leans to kiss John's neck, one clever hand popping the button and forcing the zipper of John's jeans. Cool, precise fingers slip inside his boxers, possessively cradle his half-hard cock. There's no chance now of pleasant, shared dozing; Sherlock has him clutching at the duvet, white-knuckled.

"No," says Sherlock, sternly, wrenching John's hands free. He pins them flat against the smooth fabric, stroking the backs with his palms, which are now slightly damp. "Lie still. You need do nothing. I'm a man of my word, am I not?"

Sherlock's unexpected generosity makes John shiver. He closes his eyes again, lets his breath out long and slow, and resists the urge to grab onto something as Sherlock kisses his stomach, tongue dipping in curiously at his bellybutton. Does he find the taste that his eyes and mind have doubtless predicted, or is it something different, a chemistry beyond deduction's reach? And even as Sherlock licks a hot streak across John's abdomen, his fingers are coaxing John's cock free, stroking him, lifting—

" _Sherlock_ ," John grits out, eyes open wide, but it's too late to claim that this can wait.

No tentative formalities: Sherlock takes the head of John's cock in his mouth and sucks decisively, his tongue swiping up and over the tip. Sampling him, curious. John shudders tautly and feels Sherlock's hands come up to take his wrists in a firm, reassuring grip. Sherlock's palms, merely damp before, are slick with sweat.

"Sherlock," he manages, choked with the agonizing pleasure of it. "My clothes."

Sherlock releases him for a moment, rocking back on his heels. John struggles up onto his elbows and meets Sherlock's pale, wild gaze. Next time he feels like walking out on Sherlock, he decides, he'll think of this. And he won't go _anywhere_.

"No. The thought of being mostly dressed while I do this arouses you. Painfully."

Before John can respond, Sherlock's already bent low, his travel-mussed curls brushing against John's belly as he nuzzles John's erection, the skim of his parted lips at the base almost a kiss. For some reason, it's even more intimate than being tasted. John groans, falling backwards, and he's rewarded with the swipe of Sherlock's tongue up his length and back down again. Sherlock breathes something that might be John's name, and then, without even a second's hesitation, swallows him in earnest.

"God. _Oh_." John's fingers scrabble for something, _anything_ , and tangle in Sherlock's hair. Sherlock hums, either in surprise or in approval, and redoubles his efforts. "Sherlock, you don't— _needtodothat_ , Christ. You'll choke yourself. _Don't_ —"

He comes so hard he can't find his breath, much less form words to finish the thought.

Sherlock's hair is damp beneath John's palms now, an eye for an eye. With a soft groan, he flexes his cramped fingers. Sherlock makes a reluctant, muted sound, hesitating as John coaxes him to lift his head. He brings one hand to his mouth, presses his lips to his knuckles, swallows with an effort. When he finally raises his eyes to meet John's, he's wearing an expression of muted apology. Cheek, chin, and jaw a mess: by his own impossible standards, he hasn't been meticulous enough. 

Without thinking, John undoes the remaining buttons on his shirt, struggles out of the garment, and takes it patiently to Sherlock's hand, his face. _Like cleaning a wound_ , he thinks, tossing the ruined garment on the floor. Sherlock's watching him, lips quirked in an uncertain— _well_. John isn't even sure it's a smile. Sherlock comes to his arms without protest, rolling so that John has no choice but to press up against Sherlock's back, chin tucked over his shoulder. John wraps his arm around Sherlock's waist. 

Sherlock's erection strains against his trousers, leaving the fabric damp beneath John's touch. Sherlock attempts to stifle a yawn, shifting John's hand over to his thigh.

"You should rest," he says, his tone strangely fragile. "It can wait."

 _Like hell it can_ , thinks John, pressing a feverish kiss to the back of Sherlock's neck. How can he explain that he's been made a fool of in the best possible way, or that Sherlock is, beyond doubt, one of the least selfish people he's ever known? Sherlock stifles a moan in the pillow when John finally manages to unfasten his trousers.

"What do you want?" asks John, nuzzling beneath Sherlock's ear now, his voice still rough. He doesn't hesitate to slide his hand beneath Sherlock's waistband, find him desperately hard beneath the silken fabric. Nothing, _nothing_ could possibly matter more than touching him like this. "Sherlock," John says, stroking him firmly now, stretching to kiss Sherlock's jaw when the only response he gets is another low groan. "I hope you don't mind that I'm saying it out loud, but that _was_ amazing."

Sherlock Holmes on sensory overload is a sight to behold.

Eyes shut tight, cheeks flushed high enough to collide with his lashes. Jaw taut, lips torn by a shout. John holds him tight through the tremors that seize him—first one, then another, and _another_. His come on the duvet, cooling. The halting rise and fall of his chest as he curls inward and hauls John along, as if wrapping himself in a blanket.

"You aren't a sociopath," John murmurs. It is, quite possibly, the non sequitur to end all non sequiturs—but then, they've crossed a bridge and burned it.

"Perhaps not. But it's convenient for me to let others think that I am, or even to let myself believe it. Self-deception is a marvelously effective tool, John."

John nods, absolutely certain that he understands. Sherlock turns his head to glance at John, almost suspiciously, but his wary expression is quickly replaced by one of relief.

"Housekeeping's not going to love us," he observes with a hoarse, clipped laugh.

"No, they're not," John agrees, rubbing Sherlock's arm, his chest, his stomach.

It's there that Sherlock finds John's hand and holds it fast.

* * *

It's early evening when Sherlock wakes, makes himself face what they've done.

Sex is still messy and irrational, but at least he _trusts_ John. That's the primary difference. He hadn't trusted any of his previous partners. They'd said less than flattering things behind his back. _Intense, but kind of tame. He thinks too much. Awkward; all knees and elbows. Too quiet: I couldn't tell if he even enjoyed it._

Strange, but he hasn't been quiet for John. Not loud, either, but vocal enough.

When he touches himself, it's perfunctory, a means to an end. When John touches him, it's as if his entire existence is contingent upon that very moment, upon the very _gesture_ , as if John's the defining element that's been missing all along. No one has ever bothered to call him on who he is, what he does, _why he does it_.

Mycroft tosses money, makes disapproving noises, and has done with it, because the truth of the matter is, he depends upon Sherlock—investigating, _being himself_ —just as much as Lestrade does. Unlike Sherlock's brother and Scotland Yard, however, John can't see the sense in just leaving him well enough alone. And Sherlock doesn't want him to, either. It's only now, in this foreign, darkened room, that he understands why.

For once, he can admit that the stakes are too high. 

Normally, he doesn't have to worry: the victims are already dead, and they tell him everything he needs to know about preventing a recurrence. _Usually_. The word nags at his half-awake musings, making him wonder what John had meant by it. Defense of others, perhaps. That's all one has left after self-defense, except for killing by accident or killing with purpose. People die, yes. It _is_ what they do.

That doesn't mean Sherlock has to like it, and he's got to keep busy somehow. 

It's not death that he revels in. It's the thrill of the chase, the anticipation of the catch, the _knowing he can_. And knowing he's done something meaningful, perhaps, although he's never proud. There's no call for that; satisfaction suffices. The arrogance, he can't help and won't apologize for. He'll only ever be tolerated, never fully accepted.

Except by the man snoring quietly in his ear, and that, he knows, is the solution.

Quite frankly, it terrifies him. He'd scarcely been able to gather his bearings in the tense silence following Moriarty's false exit, much less begin to understand why he'd wanted nothing so much as to throw John over his shoulder and _run_.

Sherlock shakes off the memory, longing for sleep. He listens to the sound of John's steady breath, oddly comfortable in spite of the fact that they're still in rumpled clothing, disheveled, curled tightly together on top of the duvet. He drifts.

Over breakfast—croissants, yogurt, fruit, and tea, downstairs in the bar—John asks Sherlock to Google a handful of local landmarks in order to determine opening and closing times. Sherlock complies, certain that the town's myriad churches, museums, and quaint boat tours will charm him no more than they had when he was a child. 

There's something admirable in John's curiosity, though, and wisdom in the notion that they ought to get to know their surroundings. He must learn to accept that what John thinks is relevant, _is_ , in fact, relevant. Earth revolves around the sun. Stars go supernova. Medieval bell towers are aesthetically pleasing. _Et cetera_.

"Who knows," John says, sipping his tea. "We might need to find some good hiding places. Let's hope Moriarty hasn't bothered much with this country. Most people don't."

Sherlock grins. "He'll have the same resources at his disposal that we do."

"Do you suppose he knows where we are? I mean, _exactly_ where we are."

"Almost certainly," Sherlock says, slipping his phone back in his pocket. He's feeling charitable today, so John is permitted to have his own phone on his person. It's a much nicer phone than Sherlock's, which is partly why he likes using it so much. It's a pity about the inscription and the scratch-marks. Harry must be a piece of work.

"He won't come here himself," John says. "Mycroft is right. It's too much of a risk."

"The question would be, _who_ has Moriarty sent," Sherlock muses, "and why."

John offers him the basket of pastries. "You don't make it _sound_ like a question."

"Gathering information," Sherlock says, waving it off. "That'll be top priority."

"What, on us? Doesn't he already have more than he needs?"

"In broad strokes, yes. But it's details he'll be after now. Exceedingly fine ones. Your instinct towards circumspection in public places is apt." _He's collected volumes on me, but not nearly enough on you_ , Sherlock wants to say, but instead, he finishes his tea.

"No matter what his next move, it'll sting," John sighs, setting down his empty teacup.

 _Sadly true_ , Sherlock thinks, struggling to remember who else was on the train.

 _Trains_. The two rides have run together almost seamlessly in his memory: inconsequential, taunting text messages back and forth with Mycroft, John's weight warm in the curve of his arm and on his shoulder. Otherwise, he could have sworn that the carriage, _carriages_ , had been nearly empty. From London to Brussels: a few commuters and holiday-makers, no one to be concerned about. From Brussels to Bruges: perhaps three others. No, _four_. The man with the briefcase, dead asleep; the middle-aged French woman and her young daughter, exhausted; the twenty-something redhead with expensive sound-mixing headphones plugged into an iPod Touch—

They're in trouble. Possibly. And if they are, it's a _lot_ of trouble indeed.

* * *

The _Grote Markt_ —Market Square, Sherlock's mobile translates helpfully—is within walking distance of their hotel, down a series of sickeningly charming cobblestone streets, past an imposing church, and at the end of a modern retail thoroughfare not unlike England's high streets. When the square opens before them, a confusion of tourists, horse-drawn carriages, and stunning historic architecture, John thinks he might be in love. Sherlock, on the other hand, looks as if he's about to be ill.

"My mother dragged us here when I was six," he mutters. "It looks exactly the same."

"You're having me on," John says, eagerly inspecting the menu placards of the more than a dozen cafés lining an entire side of the square. "There must be a handful of changes. And if anyone were capable of noticing them, it would be you."

"John, I hate to shatter whatever sterling impression you seem to have formed of my powers of recollection both past and present, but your admiration applies only in the instance of the latter. I was _six_. Although my eidetic memory dating to that time may be reasonably accurate, I hadn't yet developed a system for cataloguing vast amounts of minute detail. I seem to recall chasing the pigeons."

At that, John bursts out laughing. Sherlock's scowl is ridiculous.

"Chasing pigeons is good fun. Why are your memories of this place so bitter?"

"Mycroft pushed me into the fountain," says Sherlock. "You should know by now that I have as much tolerance as a cat for getting wet on anyone's terms except my own."

John nods, sobering up so that Sherlock won't sulk at him for the rest of the day.

"I'll bet the mosquitoes had something to do with it, too."

"Mycroft got three bites. I got fifteen and suffered from an allergic reaction."

John pats Sherlock's hand—strange, to find it ungloved for once.

"Let's go look through the shops," he suggests, "and forget to buy him something."

That seems to cheer Sherlock up a bit, because he's almost smiling. Whether it's one of those unpredictable surges of fondness or the fact that his cane doesn't get on well with the cobblestones, John can't tell, but Sherlock takes his arm as if it were the most natural thing in the world. They draw a few knowing looks from passers-by. In London, the only looks they tend to get are odd ones. Mrs. Hudson doesn't count.

Sherlock scents a tea shop from over a block away, predicting that there will be some manner of large, well-groomed dog on the premises. Sure enough, the owners of Het Brugs Theehuis permit their alarmingly large, yet well-mannered poodle—or at least it _looks_ like some type of poodle—free reign of the shop. It meets Sherlock at the door, nosing his hand with silent curiosity. Sherlock gives the dog an absent scratch behind the ear, leaving John to face the animal as he makes a bee-line for the shelves. 

John stands for a moment, locked in a benign staring match. The dog noses his hand just as it had nosed Sherlock's, licking him gently. The animal makes for reasonably good company until Sherlock has finished requesting and sniffing at ten or more caddies from behind the counter. He decides to purchase two hundred grams of high-grade matcha. Twelve euros for tea. Impossible. John tells him so as they leave.

"They're specialists, John. They take great care in selecting their stock."

"Do you even _like_ green tea? I've never seen you drink it."

"Not the kind you can get at Tesco, no," Sherlock says, "but I like this." He shakes the bag at John as if to make a point. "With honey in it, although purists would scream."

"Matcha with honey," John sighs, knowing Sherlock will demand it of him at least once a day till the bloody stuff runs out. "You'll have to teach me how to make it." He briefly consults his mobile, frowning. They're not on the right street for the shop he's looking for, but then, there's no reason for them to rush.

"Why did you tell Harry where we are?" Sherlock asks, leaning to peer at the text.

"In case somebody has to come claim my remains," John mutters, an awkward attempt at humor, but it's at least half true. "Sherlock, she never talks to _anybody_ these days. Except for me. God knows why. Mum would appreciate it more."

"Bier Tempel," Sherlock reads. "Tell me, did she exceed her customs allowance?"

"Mycroft's more likely to know than I am. She says the beer here is fantastic. This shop isn't the only place she's recommending. Apparently there's a pub called—"

"I am _not_ accompanying you to a pub, even a civilized Burgundian one—"

"—called De Garre," John continues, determined, "that keeps most of the local brews on tap. And yes, you are absolutely going with me. The entrance is down a narrow alley and up a rickety wooden staircase. There'll be no football, I promise."

"Fine. What other delights does your debauched sibling have in store for us?"

"None, as far as I can tell," John says, putting the phone away. "She wants me to bring her home a few cases of this expensive stuff they make at a Trappist monastery somewhere just outside of town. I told her to bugger off."

"Saint Sixtus," Sherlock says. "We visited the abbey. It would seem that your sister and my father have the same taste in beer. _Had_. My father hasn't tasted anything in nearly ten years, and I'm not about to bring some back to pour on his grave."

Sherlock has never discussed his father's death in any detail. John won't press him.

The next two hours are fun in an an aimless, ambling sort of way. Removed from his normal environment, Sherlock is a fascinating creature: quieter and somehow more still, his intense focus tugged from one minor distraction to the next. John is content to follow where Sherlock leads, on the condition that they conduct a reconnaissance mission to De Garre by the end of the day. Sherlock grumbles, but he's quickly absorbed in a series of shop-fronts touting the local mercantile delicacies: tapestry and lace. He wrangles John into helping him select a wall-hanging of which Mrs. Hudson will approve. John inspects a few price-tags. It's going to cost a fortune.

"To cover the bullet-holes," Sherlock explains. "A peace offering."

"I think she's forgiven you," John tells him, peripherally aware that the sales-girl thinks they're adorable. "For my part, it's the smiley-face that's disturbing."

"There was some spray-paint left," Sherlock replies, absently fingering a tapestry.

They walk out with a two-meter by four-meter medieval scene that reminds John of every image he's ever seen of the Unicorn Tapestries. The needlework is, Sherlock insists, very fine, and given the pseudo-Victorian feel of everything else in the flat, it should blend right in. John supposes that anything is better than the damn smiley-face, at least until Sherlock decides to start using the tapestry as an impromptu bulletin board. Sherlock looks scandalized, yet vaguely guilty, at the suggestion.

After a passable lunch of baguette sandwiches and a small box of truffles from one of the countless chocolate shops, they coax his mobile's GPS into showing them where the hell De Garre is. The alley is every bit as dodgy-looking as Harry had described, and John very nearly loses his cane between slats in the staircase. By the time they reach the top, they're laughing, drawing the same odd looks they get at home.

As soon as John's settled in with a half-pint of the house beer and a bewildering complimentary tray of cubed-up white cheese, Sherlock excuses himself. He's off to the loo, which means he'll spend the next fifteen minutes texting Mycroft or Lestrade or whoever else has been unfortunate enough to send him a stupid question.

Sherlock has been gone for scarcely thirty seconds when John's mobile rings.

"Hello? Harry?"

"Not quite," says Mycroft, sounding amused. "Is he well?"

"Not bleeding anymore," John says, idly picking at some cheese.

"Excellent news. Isn't it the most terrifying thing you've ever experienced?"

John swallows the cheese, blinking. "Not really, no—wait, excuse me, what?"

Mycroft sighs, put-upon. "Sherlock. In love, by all accounts. With _you_. "

"Why?" John asks. _I'm probably in love with him, too; it's a sorry state of affairs_.

"Because there's nothing you wouldn't do for each other. Moriarty hadn't been counting on that, but now that he knows, it gives him a distinct advantage."

"Which is?"

"He can do more than just hurt you. He can _undo_ you."

"Is this why Sherlock never let himself form any attachments?"

"Yes. Partly. You may have noticed that my brother does, despite his insistence to the contrary, have a conscience. He doesn't like to put others in harm's way."

"I'd say he's put me there plenty of times," John points out halfheartedly.

"No, he's let you _follow_ him there, and even then only when he's certain you'll be fine. Think of the times he _hasn't_. The times when he's just slipped off without warning."

The taxi driver. Moriarty. Abruptly, John feels ill.

"Why doesn't he try harder? I always manage to find him, even when _I'm_ not trying."

"There's no risk of either of you losing the other if you face death side by side."

"True, but you'd be amazed at how often that tactic ends in heartbreak."

"Then see to it that it doesn't, Doctor Watson," replies Mycroft, and hangs up.

* * *

Sherlock can't help but notice—insofar as he normally can't help but notice _everything_ —that John is unusually quiet on their way back to the hotel. He attempts to interest him in dinner at an elegant-looking Chinese restaurant, but John declines, citing fatigue and very real pain in his leg. They decide to take dinner in the hotel, as the bar menu had intrigued John with its sampling of local cookery. It occurs to Sherlock that he's been eating far more regularly than he normally would. Much to his shock, he's not averse to the trend. He must be nearly back to his pre-injury weight.

"For a while there," John says, not long after their food arrives, "I was convinced that you didn't do any of the things that normal human beings do. But now, I've got incontrovertible proof that you do, in fact, eat and sleep."

"Amongst other things," Sherlock concedes, hoping it'll put a cap on the conversation. The _Waterzooi_ he's ordered is quite appealing, a rich stew of chicken and vegetables.

John seems to be enjoying his rabbit. "It doesn't mean I consider you weak," he says.

"That wasn't my concern. I wanted to nip whatever was coming next in the bud."

John's expression conveys understanding. "Sherlock, I wasn't about to mention—"

"That will be sufficient," replies Sherlock. The stew isn't going down as easily now.

"I'm sorry," John says. "I should have realized that you prefer to avoid—"

"Time and place," Sherlock tells him. "This may be the time, but it's not the place."

John nods into his beer, chagrined, and Sherlock suddenly feels like apologizing.

"Someone called you in the pub," he says instead. "It was either Harry or Mycroft."

John sighs and rubs his forehead. "It doesn't much matter which."

"On the contrary, it matters very much. Only a conversation with Mycroft would leave you looking as if you wished you'd brought your gun. What did he say to you?"

"That our present—" he hesitates "— _condition_ gives Moriarty a distinct advantage."

"Yes," Sherlock mutters. "Injury and...dalliance are not the best of bedfellows."

"If that's what you want to call it," John says, glancing down at his plate.

"Irrelevant. I need to know what Mycroft said."

John meets his eyes. "Mycroft was quite explicit in his terminology."

Sherlock raises his eyebrows. "Regarding?"

"What we are. What we're doing. And what _Moriarty_ might do."

Sherlock closes his eyes, braces himself. "I've already put you in far more danger than I consider acceptable, but it's too late now. You've made your choice."

"So have you," says John, pointedly. "Otherwise, you wouldn't be sitting here."

"I can't finish this," Sherlock says, dropping his spoon in the small copper pot.

John downs the remainder of his beer. "Couldn't have put it better myself."

They retire early, avoiding Thérèse on their way upstairs. Sherlock watches in silence as John checks his own dressings, frowning as per usual at the sutures, which haven't quite begun to dissolve yet, pressing along the edges cautiously. Sherlock wonders if he's concerned about infection, or merely worried that he's overworking himself. He experiences a stab of guilt that he tries to write off as residual pain. He hasn't had a repeat of the incident at Scotland Yard, for which he is grateful. Neither one of them has taken as much care as they ought. John reaches for the box of gauze.

"Don't," Sherlock says, snagging it before he does. "Let me."

John looks up at him in surprise, nods curtly.

"I've been seeing to myself," Sherlock reminds him. "I can certainly see to you."

John is dozing by the time Sherlock finishes. He looks curiously vulnerable like this, stripped down to nothing but his boxers, clearly exhausted. Soundlessly, Sherlock clears up the remaining medical supplies and prepares himself for bed. John scarcely moves as Sherlock wrestles the covers down and crawls in beside him.

"The light," he mumbles, turning instinctively towards Sherlock.

Sherlock reaches across him with some difficulty and switches it off.

"Thanks," John murmurs, barely audible, his voice muffled against Sherlock's chest.

"Of course," Sherlock whispers, stroking John's hair, letting his eyes drift shut.

By morning, Sherlock's sense of having slighted John hasn't gone away. It's for this reason that he doesn't automatically say _No, absolutely not_ when John suggests that they take a boat tour of the canals. John is right to point out that the activity will require less walking on his part, which would be no bad thing after the amount of walking they'd done the day before. John eats breakfast while Sherlock watches.

There's already a small crowd of tourists milling about in an indistinct queue by the time their cab drops them off at the dock. Sherlock purchases their tickets, taking stock of the others as the man in the booth counts out his change. There's a cluster of six Italian teenagers, probably on a backpacking trip, and some miscellaneous couples, plus a few parents with children. He's been on the lookout for the redhead from the train, but he hasn't seen her again since. It's possible that she might have been somewhere in the crowds through which they'd passed the day before. She could very easily be the one thing that he's missing. Like Harry. John's sister. His _sister_.

"Ready, are we?" John asks, hobbling up to Sherlock.

"Yes," Sherlock says, handing him a ticket. "I told you to stay sitting down."

"There's no point," John says. "They're getting ready to go."

Sure enough, the tour guide is ushering people onto the boat. They hastily rejoin the end of the queue. Just when the boat has taken all that Sherlock thinks it can possibly hold, the tour guide reaches up and helps John into the lone remaining seat with impressive care. When John looks up expectantly at Sherlock, the tour guide says, "We're full now. Your friend will wait for the next one."

Sherlock feels his chest tighten, starting forward. "Surely there's some space—"

But the tour guide is already picking his way up to the front of the boat, and his assistant has already removed the tether and started up the engine. Sherlock stands watching as the tour guide begins his speech, repeating each short segment in French and in the local dialect after he's completed it in English. John's eyes remain fixed on Sherlock until the boat's too far out of sight to be distinct.

"The next one is coming," the man at the ticket window reassures him. "See?"

Another boat pulls up to the dock and offloads its occupants. By the time the new tour guide steps up to take Sherlock's ticket and help him onto the boat, Sherlock is dimly aware that a few other people have queued up behind him. From his vantage point at the back of the boat, he watches the elderly couple settle themselves at the front.

The redhead is last on. She settles herself in the middle, so that she's facing Sherlock rather than the tour guide. An expensive digital camera dangles from her right arm. Journalism student. Third year. Just confident enough to know what she's doing, but still inexperienced enough to fall for a shady offer that's too lucrative to refuse.

She notices Sherlock's scrutiny and offers him a friendly smile, tourist to tourist. She reaches into her handbag and pulls out her mobile, fires off a quick text message.

Sherlock puts on his best game face. His mobile rings.

"You're not trying hard enough," he says into the mouthpiece, without preamble.

"Sherlock," says Jim Moriarty, almost warmly. "That's no way to greet a friend."

"Enemy," Sherlock snaps, automatically. "One I'd rather not be saddled with."

"You seemed happy enough with our arrangement. _You_ even set up the first meeting."

"Yes, well," Sherlock says, noticing that the redhead is trying very hard to pay attention to everything _except_ for him. She has her camera in hand, and every few feet, she snaps a picture. Architecture. Greenery. Swans. "I rather regret it now."

"Lying!" chirps Moriarty, with a manic chuckle. "Not for your own sake, anyway."

"I won't ask you to leave him out of this," Sherlock says, furious. "Too late for that."

"Hope you're both enjoying my little gift."

"Which would be?"

"Each other. Sur _prise_!"

"How very like you, to claim credit where none is due."

"I told you, I'm going to burn the heart out of you. But first, I had to give you one."

The blow is almost palpable. Sherlock sucks in his breath.

"If I didn't know any better, I'd say you were jealous."

"Of _course_ I am. John suffers so beautifully, doesn't he? In complete silence, even. You haven't just acquired a pet; you've found yourself a _martyr_."

"Martyrs don't fight," Sherlock tells him. "You'll find that John Watson _does_."

"If only you'd just kept at it. Gone _all the way_. Not so hard to conceive of now, is it? If the two of you had put on a good show, I might _just_ have walked away. Pity."

"You've gone about this all wrong," Sherlock says. _I'm not about to thank you, either_.

"What, the surveillance? Pretty thing, isn't she? Reminded me a bit of our Molly. Do you like her lipstick? I picked it out myself. That mouth has _talent_."

Involuntarily, Sherlock twitches. The girl is watching him with an avid artist's eye.

"It's not as if there's any point. You could hardly use such photographs to blackmail us. By now, anyone left in London who doesn't know about it is at least _thinking_ it."

"Oh, these aren't for public consumption. _No_ nonono. They're for my eyes only. A reminder of what I've created. Of what I can destroy just as easily."

"If it helps, you can have your fantasy," Sherlock sighs. _Snap_. The flash blinds him.

"Thank you, Sherlock," says Moriarty, deadpan. "How very generous. By the by, you don't seem as...distracted as I would have expected to find you. Where's Johnny-boy?"

"Not here," Sherlock says. "Mercifully."

Just then, Sherlock spots the other boat. They've met halfway: John returning, Sherlock still in transit. Their eyes meet as the tour guides greet each other and the boats pass side by side. John's expression turns from bored to relieved to alarmed when he realizes that Sherlock is on the phone. He mouths, _Who is it?_

 _Who do you think?_ Sherlock mouths back.

John goes pale, looks as if he's contemplating jumping off the boat and swimming the short distance between them. Sherlock holds up one hand, gives him a pleading look. _The dock_ , he mouths. _Wait for me there_. John nods, brows knit as if he's in pain. Sherlock watches his boat vanish, regretting having been so melodramatic.

All the while, the redhead's been busy. Flash after flash after flash.

"Bronach isn't half bad at taking pictures, either, is she?" Moriarty asks with relish.

"Fantastic," Sherlock says, so angry that he's shaking, and hangs up on him.

Bronach lowers her camera as Sherlock fixes her with an icy glare.

"If you don't drop it in the water," says Sherlock, levelly, "I will do it for you."

She's already fumbling a cable from camera to mobile, tight-lipped and silent. As Sherlock begins to move in her direction, she gives him a poisonous look.

"If you touch me, I'll scream," she hisses. "They'll call the police. Take you to prison when we dock. Let your brother sort _that_ one out, yeah?"

Sherlock sits back down, chewing the inside of his cheek. _They're only photographs_ , he reminds himself. Photographs. Pieces of digital information. Not tangible things.

"Dammit!" Bronach shouts, punching her mobile buttons furiously. It's gone dead.

"Your patron will just have to wait," Sherlock says. "Unfortunately, he's not patient."

"Go to hell," Bronach says, starts to photograph their surroundings once more.

When they finally reach the dock, John is waiting: not sitting down like he ought to be, but on his feet, holding onto the railing with both arms, his eyes alight with worry. As they line up to get off the boat, Sherlock makes certain that he's directly behind Bronach, close enough to breathe on the top of her head. The camera dangles from her arm. Easy access, perhaps, waiting to get some shots of them together. 

Sherlock makes his move just as she's crossing the gap from boat to dock. He makes the contact seem accidental, lurching forward as if pitched by the boat's rocking. He strikes her elbow, hard. _Ooh! Right in the funny-bone_ , his mother would say. Bronach cries out, her arm jerking straight, fingers clenched in an agonized fist. 

The camera slips off her wrist and into the water.

" _Fuck_!" she shouts, finding herself faced by the elderly couple as she finds her footing on the dock. "Sorry, sorry, _désolée_ ," she mutters, staring disconsolately into the water. The look she gives Sherlock as he emerges from the boat is one of pure hatred. She stuffs her hands in her pockets and stalks off past all of them.

"What was that all about?" John asks, already at Sherlock's side.

"Just a mishap," Sherlock says, taking his arm. "Shame. It was a nice camera."

Out of the corner of his eye, Sherlock can see that Bronach is already up on the bridge, watching them. For the moment, she's harmless. She'll spend the rest of the day looking for a replacement camera, and then she'll spend a miserable evening at her hotel trying to justify to Moriarty what happened. He'll be annoyed with her, perhaps even livid. He'll punish her. Take her off the beat. No more free holiday.

"There's some lovely scenery, but the tour guides are dull," John says. "Sherlock?"

They're alone on the dock now. Even the tour-guides and ticket-seller are gone.

"It all looked exactly the same to me," Sherlock says, leaning down, and kisses him.

John recovers from his shock quickly, allowing his weight to be supported by Sherlock's arm around his waist. They're lost for long moments in the unexpectedness of it, the depth. John lets his tongue slip carefully past Sherlock's teeth, questioning. Sherlock pulls him in tighter so that their bodies are touching now, flush, front to front, insofar as they're able given the height difference. John's cane hits the dock with a clatter, but they ignore it, fierce and settled now, past apology or regret.

"Let's head back," Sherlock says, breathing hard against the corner of John's mouth.

"Yes, good," John manages, clutching at the railing. "Are you hungry?"

"Peckish," Sherlock replies, bending to retrieve John's cane. "We'll order up."

John takes the cane from him slowly, letting their fingers brush and slide. Sherlock breathes deeply, smiles, hesitantly lets go. He's learning to recognize John Watson's particular brand of seduction. It's so subtle that most people would miss it.

"Call us a cab," John says. "Also, it's _your_ turn to do nothing. Understand?"

"Perfectly," Sherlock says, dialing as fast as his fingers will permit. Bronach has been gone for a minute or more, having stalked off somewhere in the midst of the kiss.

They're in for a brilliant evening, but he won't thank her or Moriarty or even Mycroft.

That honor is entirely John's, and Sherlock will make sure that he knows it.

* * *

Their restraint is, to say the least, admirable.

Once back at the hotel, they place an order for the same two dishes partially consumed the night before, only reversed. Just as the young woman who takes their order begins to protest that, no, they don't offer room service, Thérèse overhears in passing, backtracks, chides the girl until her ears glow pink, and then reassures Sherlock that their food will be delivered in roughly half an hour. Once she's gone, Sherlock thanks the girl, pays their tab, and slips her an extra twenty-euro note.

"I would never have taken you for a big tipper, but you drop tens and twenties like you grow them," John observes as Sherlock helps him up the stairs. "I suppose Mycroft doesn't mind. Generosity becomes hush-money in a pinch."

"It's not his money I'm using to tip," Sherlock says. "Or to shop, for that matter."

"I suppose the paycheck's coming in handy," says John as they reach the room. "Might want to be careful, though. There's no guaranteeing your next client will be a banker."

" _Our_ next client," Sherlock corrects him, switching on the lights, "and no, there isn't."

"You're accustomed to free spending, though," John says, dropping down heavily onto the bed. "I've been doing some market research. Your clothes aren't cheap."

Sherlock nods curtly at his reflection in the room's lone mirror, grimacing as he shrugs out of his coat. "I would have thought you'd applaud me for realizing that people deserve compensation for what I put them through."

John looks like he wants to laugh, but his expression is tempered by unspoken anxiety. "Come here," he says. "Sit down. The food won't be long."

Although he knows John has other ideas, Sherlock busies himself with examining John's leg. The gunshot had been as clean as either of them could have hoped for, and aside from the strain of premature overuse, John's calf muscle is in good condition. It's possible that he'll lose the limp again in time. Sherlock presses his palm to the gradually forming scar, as if to erase it. _My fault_ , he thinks. _Mine and mine alone_.

The kiss is inevitable, unavoidable. Sherlock's shirt is half-unbuttoned when a knock sounds at the door. John grimaces, carefully redoing the buttons.

"Thought they'd take longer," he sighs, offering Sherlock an apologetic smile.

"You underestimate Madame Reynaud's devotion," Sherlock replies. "I'll get it."

With plate and kettle balanced on their knees, they decide to take a chance on the telly. It's station after station of trashy sitcoms, mystifying commercials, and staid news reports—peppered with what are either low-budget romance films or soft-core pornography. John makes a disgruntled sound and turns it off.

"Can't understand a word in _either_ language."

"There wasn't much _to_ understand, in some of it," Sherlock says. He's enjoying the _Lapin aux pruneaux_ very much, but John's picking at his _Waterzooi_ as if it doesn't much thrill him. He offers Sherlock a bite, but Sherlock politely declines.

"I can rarely eat the same thing two days running," he admits.

"Unless it's Chinese," John mutters, setting the stew aside on the nightstand.

"Naturally," Sherlock says, picking the last few strips of edible meat off his rabbit leg. "There's enough variety to keep me occupied. Would you care for—?"

John shakes his head and leans back against the pillows. "You finish."

Sherlock eats half of his potatoes more quickly than he ought, and then lowers his plate to the floor. They lie together in silence for a few minutes, digesting, Sherlock's toes teasing at John's ankle. John looks slightly ridiculous in boxers, a long-sleeved shirt, and jumper, but the fact that he's completely unselfconscious in most states of undress impresses Sherlock beyond reason. Nakedness doesn't embarrass Sherlock, but he finds the sensation of another person's gaze upon his skin strange.

"Shirt off," John says at length, leaning over Sherlock to resume unbuttoning.

"You don't waste any time, do you?" Sherlock asks, more sarcastic than he intends.

"If it's all right with you, I'd like to make sure you aren't permanently stuck to your gauze," says John, wryly, parting Sherlock's shirt. "I didn't bring my scalpel."

The medical tape peels away somewhat painfully, but the dressings, thankfully, aren't stuck in place. There hasn't been anything for them to stick _to_ in nearly a week. Sherlock idly studies his scarring wounds as John gently prods and frowns, curiously detached. Just above his right pectoral, below the collarbone, he's still a mess of sutures and healing flesh. At the center, where the bullet entered him, a ragged starburst has been stitched mid-explosion. He looks up then and meets John's eyes.

"It's funny—" John begins, but Sherlock cuts him off before he can state the obvious.

They roll together, John easily gaining the upper hand. It doesn't hurt to have John's weight stretched out on him fully, Sherlock realizes, no more than it had that night when John had fallen asleep in a chair at the foot of his bed. Baker Street seems distant, a place to which they might never return. Startling, to realize, as his breath mingles with John's, that John feels more like home to him than any empty room.

Just as Sherlock begins to raise his hands to take hold of John's shoulders, let his fingers knead and slide their way down to John's waist to begin rucking up those ridiculous layers, John pins them firmly at his sides. Kisses him breathless.

"If you so much as protest, God help me," John says, panting, "I'll stop."

Idiot though Sherlock may be, he is _not_ stupid. He nods, catching John's lower lip between his teeth. John makes a pleased sound that's half groan, half laugh.

Although their pool of encounters is, thus far, relatively limited, Sherlock concludes with confidence that this is, by and far, John at his most methodical. Sherlock feels no shame in letting his eyes drift shut as John kisses his cheek, his chin, the hollow of his throat. Lingers there, tonguing inquisitively. Sherlock trembles slightly, struggling when the contact becomes ticklish. In response, John tightens his grip on Sherlock's wrists and moves lower: light scrape of teeth at Sherlock's collarbone, the scarcest brush of his lips against Sherlock's jagged scars. _Stars go supernova_ , he thinks.

"If the gears are still turning, then I'm not doing a good enough job," John says, his lips pressed firmly over Sherlock's heart. He peers up at Sherlock, questioning.

Sherlock raises an eyebrow. _I'd call you a cock-tease if it were worth the effort_.

John catches the challenge in his expression, just as Sherlock had known he would.

All no-nonsense from there on out, as John removes Sherlock's trousers—the John with which Sherlock is most familiar. He tastes Sherlock's bellybutton, a gently teasing reminder of Sherlock's own actions, before pausing to draw a sharp breath against Sherlock's hipbone. _He's nervous_ , Sherlock realizes. _Worse than I was_. He scarcely lets it show as he nuzzles against Sherlock's arousal, perhaps getting used to the feel of it. He lets go of Sherlock's wrists, takes hold of his hips instead. Sherlock steels himself, determined not to thrust too suddenly when the moment comes— _ah_ , but it's here now, too startling, too soon. He groans, unable to silence himself in time. 

John murmurs something against Sherlock, fingers and tongue insistent, too absorbed to chide him. Sherlock wants nothing more than to twist and thrash, to give John no other choice than to abandon his task, crawl up the length of Sherlock's body, and settle against him, move with him, _come_ for him. Sherlock jerks helplessly into John's mouth at the thought, swallowing a moan. Five point four seconds. 

John's hands slide from his hips down to the backs of his thighs, coaxing.

He won't survive it. Two point six—

John is coughing, maybe even choking, but all Sherlock can see is stars.

When Sherlock opens his eyes, too wrecked to move, John is kneeling between his thighs, one arm braced on either side of him, wearing an expression as tenderly amazed as it is concerned. He must've wiped his mouth on one of the discarded dinner napkins. _Note to self: keep clean-up supplies on hand; we're appalling at this_. 

Sherlock takes his first breath in what feels like hours, reaching immediately for the hem of John's shirt and jumper. He complies, allowing Sherlock to wrestle him free. Boxers next, and then the feel of John's cock brushing against Sherlock's belly, heavy with wanting. Sherlock wraps both legs around John's waist, dragging him down. He settles where Sherlock wants him, wastes no time in taking the invitation. Sherlock moves with him, spent, but willing. John's kisses are distracted, almost frantic.

When John comes, Sherlock crushes his mouth to John's ear, murmurs—murmurs _what_ , he hardly knows. Soothing syllables. Wordless thanks. John's name.

After a short while, John stretches against him, grimacing a little at the mess.

"We've got to work on this," he says, pressing a soft kiss into Sherlock's hair.

"My thoughts exactly," Sherlock mutters, his face buried in John's neck. "Cleaning supplies." He has no words for the panic that rises in him without warning, the knowledge of what John is about to ask him and of what he is about to say.

John tenses slightly, caressing Sherlock's arm. "About that phone call earlier—"

"It was Mycroft," Sherlock says thickly, feigning a yawn. "I'm sorry if I gave you the wrong impression. I was on a boat and in unpleasant company."

"Oh," John says, relaxing somewhat. "Because you seemed...troubled."

"Mycroft's current obsession with playing travel agent troubles me greatly."

"Does he want us to move on?"

"No," Sherlock lies. After the incident with Bronach, Mycroft would almost _certainly_ want them to leave. As soon as he catches wind of it, they'll hear from him.

"Well, good," John says, rising just enough to fish over the side of the bed for whatever he'd been using to clean himself up earlier. "I'm really starting to like it here. We haven't had the chance to explore any landmarks as such."

"Tomorrow," yawns Sherlock, in earnest this time. He could fall asleep and not wake for days if it meant he wouldn't have to face himself for proving so false in the aftermath of John's brilliant, brave reciprocation. He's drifting already.

John mops at Sherlock's belly, traces tenuous constellations in his wake.

* * *

If there's one thing John's sure he'll never tire of, it's watching Sherlock sleep.

Once, he had thought that catching his flatmate in the act would prove something akin to sighting a rare bird. It hadn't been terribly long after he moved into Baker Street, however, when he first found Sherlock slumped at the kitchen table, dozing over an experiment that fortunately didn't include anything that might burn or otherwise permanently scar him. John had stood in the doorway for long moments, transfixed, unable to wipe the grin off his face. It hadn't been uncommon to find Sherlock asleep on the sofa, either, whether peaceful on his back or curled fitfully into one corner. John had smiled hardest at that, even if it had looked incredibly uncomfortable.

Sherlock sleeps deeply now, sprawled inelegantly across John's body. The hotel bed is a distinct improvement over Sherlock's bed, and probably over his own, too. They'll need a bigger one at home, no question. John presses his lips to Sherlock's forehead, shifting his right arm carefully in attempt to chase off the pins and needles plaguing it. Sherlock stirs only slightly, wrapping his arm tighter around John's ribcage. John supposes that he doesn't need to breathe, at least not for now.

All in all, he decides, it had hardly been unpleasant. Quite the opposite, in fact.

He'd never sucked a man off before, much less contemplated it. The first hurdle had been easy: Sherlock's smell and taste had not been repellent, as if living in close proximity for several months had already acclimatized him to whatever his nose and tongue might discover. He'd loved the feel of Sherlock's whipcord muscles pulled taught at the first touch of his lips, his cheek, his breath. And then, when he'd tasted him, the _sound_ Sherlock had made alone had been enough to convince him that the act was worth following through, not matter what the outcome.

He hadn't been much more successful at swallowing than Sherlock had. That will come with practice, he tells himself, because he knows that Sherlock will have it mastered inside a week, and he's not about to give Sherlock anything less than the same treatment. John shivers at the thought. Sherlock seems to feel it and curls closer.

John considers the improbability of who he's holding, of who's _holding him_.

Sherlock's bizarre and apparently strained relationship with physical intimacy had been evident from the outset; their conversation in Angelo's restaurant on the day after they'd first met had made Sherlock's reservations public knowledge. But it hadn't made them _clear_ ; that had been the rub. For such a rational, incisive mind, Sherlock had been evasive to a fault when it came to personal matters. Had it really taken nearly losing their lives, nearly losing _each other_ , to knock a few bolts loose?

For John, sex had seldom been casual, but it had always been a regular enough fixture in his relationships. He realizes that before now he might have classed it as _fun_ or _satisfying_ or sometimes even _necessary_. Rarely _mind-blowing_ , but that's all right.

With Sherlock, it's a marvel: unexpected, fervent, and never taken for granted.

Sherlock is hypersensitive to things that John normally would have considered par for the course. Full-body contact. Breath against his skin. John's legs wrapped around his hips. Kissing. With Sherlock, none of these acts could ever pass for ordinary.

Harry had always accused John of having a boring sex life, at least going by what she could glean from his exes. If his current fare counts as boring, then he's glad he's found somebody—however neurotic or repressed—who likes it as dull as he does.

Sherlock murmurs indistinctly, twitching as he dreams. John strokes this back.

He's got the wretched suspicion that Sherlock is lying to him.

They oversleep. John wakes flushed and irritable, too restless for his own skin, but Sherlock wraps one sure, strong hand around his cock and has him coming inside a minute. Sherlock kisses him lazily for a long time afterward, but doesn't seem interested in anything more elaborate. They clean up, skip breakfast, and take to the mist-shrouded streets. It must have rained the night before. Sherlock insists on keeping hold of John's arm, lest he slip. It's comfortable, walking like this. 

John had expected Sherlock to protest when he learned that John wanted to visit _Onze-Lieve-Vrouwekerk_ , the Church of Our Lady, in particular—but if he had any objections, then he was doing an admirable job of keeping them to himself. John is not a religious man, but he'd been towed along to Anglican services as a child at Easter and Christmas. He tells Sherlock, not because he thinks that this will make for particularly stimulating conversation, but because he feels the need to foster openness. Sherlock nods attentively, his eyes sweeping over the gilded bronze tomb effigies of Charles the Bold and his beloved daughter, Mary of Burgundy.

"That, I hadn't bothered to deduce," he says, bending to read a display plaque.

"Which?" John asks. "The not-religious-now part, or the growing-up-Anglican part?"

"Anglican," Sherlock replies. "In her time, she was one of the richest women in the world. She was also the first to receive a diamond ring as an engagement gift. Forceful, intelligent, and an excellent diplomat. It's a pity she died rather young."

It's the first time John has ever heard Sherlock refer to anyone's death as a pity.

"How did she die?" he asks, well aware that the answer is nearby. He'd rather hear it from Sherlock, because it's unfair how beautifully his voice echoes in the space.

"Hunting a heron," Sherlock says, mouth quirking in an amused grin. "Her horse stumbled, and she fell. The horse landed _on_ her. It wouldn't have been pleasant."

"I can think of very few causes of death that are pleasant, Sherlock."

"Her father's end was much, much worse."

"So I read," John says, and leaves it at that. He has no wish to dwell on the defeated duke's body frozen fast in a river near the battlefield, gnawed upon for days by wild animals. He takes Sherlock's hand and coaxes him away from his contemplation of an elaborately painted, thankfully _empty_ medieval sarcophagus. He leads them out of the choir, no longer content to linger. He wants to leave, but not before hearing Sherlock's assessment of the Madonna-and-child Michelangelo sculpture near the entrance.

“Somber,” Sherlock murmurs, his eyes gleaming nearly as pale as the marble itself as he studies the figures' delicate poise. “Almost flawless. I can't find any points at which the chisel may have slipped. Granted, they keep us at several arms' length.”

“It's a fish out of water,” John says, lingering over the Virgin's blank eyes.

“Originally Meant for Siena Cathedral, or so scholars think.”

They stand in silence, elbows brushing, until a determined young woman with a BlackBerry sidles up a few feet away from Sherlock and begins using the gadget to photograph the statue. She has a wan, pretty face and a beret that covers her hair.

“I'll be outside,” John says, touching Sherlock's arm. “Look as long as you like.”

Sherlock hums in response, intent upon the relic's ghostly perfection.

* * *

_Saint John the Martyr_ , thinks Sherlock. Had he recognized the girl now standing beside him? Bronach snaps a few more pictures of the statue before turning to Sherlock.

 _Dear Jim_ , he thinks, bitterly, _please fix it so that this hapless young woman you've so gracelessly conscripted into doing your dirty work will get the hell off our backs_.

 _Snap_. Bronach photographs Sherlock's face, clicks a few keys, hits _send_.

Sherlock glares at her as his mobile vibrates. He retrieves it and scowls at the text. If there's anything he doesn't like, it's his own game played badly.

 _NO_ , it says. As if the photograph had told Moriarty what he'd been thinking.

 _FUCK YOU_ , Sherlock writes back, a move that is both immature and unwise.

The response is almost immediate: _YES PLEASE_.

 _NEVER_ , Sherlock replies, turning the phone off. He meets Bronach's eyes.

“Is it money you want? How much are your textbooks for next term?”

She smiles almost sadly. “You can't afford to match the ten grand I've already got.”

Sherlock considers this. He could if he didn't have John to think of.

“What do you see in him?" Bronach asks, genuinely inquisitive. "He's kind of plain.”

“If you're not bright enough to see why John's a prize, then I'm not going to waste my breath explaining it to you," Sherlock retorts, tucking his phone away. "I've kept him waiting long enough. You _do_ realize you're dependent on close range now?"

"Yep," she says, dropping the BlackBerry into her shoulder bag. "And you're going to make things difficult on me. It's a pity I didn't get a shot of that kiss."

"After yesterday's showing, I thought for sure Jim would've fired you." Sherlock waves in her face, slow and exaggerated. "Butterfingers."

"He's more understanding than you'd think," says Bronach, her expression unreadable.

"There was no happily-ever-after for the last ginger he took a shine to," Sherlock tells her as he turns to leave. "Look to it. I'd hate to see your heart broken." He doesn't mean it. He hopes she'll be devastated, take it even worse than Molly.

"No danger in that," Bronach says, her grin shrewd. "I'm only in it for the money."

 _And the sex_ , thinks Sherlock, with distaste, _but it won't last long_. "Goodbye."

"He didn't recognize me, you know," she calls after him. "Your John, I mean."

Sherlock doesn't respond, letting the door close heavily behind him. John rises immediately from the bench he's staked out, meeting Sherlock's eyes expectantly.

"For a minute there, I was afraid you were going to pronounce it a fake, or something else equally scary that would've meant dashing across the length and breadth of Europe for a few days until we'd tracked down the real one."

Sherlock shakes his head, smiles briefly at his feet. "Nothing so thrilling, I'm afraid. It's much harder to imitate Michelangelo than it is to imitate Vermeer. Although it's been looted twice, this statue's days of wandering are long over."

"Come on. There's a café over here that serves Twinings," John says, pointing. "I'm dying for a cup of English Breakfast. I'm sick of that muddled stuff at the hotel."

"Pedestrian," says Sherlock, to no one in particular, but follows him anyway.

They spend an hour or so in the café, until John's leg is rested. Much to Sherlock's surprise, he doesn't see Bronach exit the church. She must have gone out by the side doors. They spend the next two hours trailing aimlessly in and out of the antique shops and secondhand jewelers that seem to populate this part of town. 

Sherlock realizes that this kind of behavior is the sort of thing in which he'd never indulge on his own. John is curiously fond of looking just for the sake of looking. Sherlock keeps himself occupied by assessing the provenance of various items, some of them remarkably dubious. He frowns at a fourteenth-century wooden statue of Saint Catherine. It would be flawless if not for a missing hand. Five thousand euros.

"What's wrong?" John asks, limping up beside him. "This one's a fake?"

"No," Sherlock says. "Stolen. Not locally, though. Some priest or parishioner would have reported the theft, or would even have recognized it in passing."

"I'd wager that's the case for a third of this shop's contents," John sighs.

"Maybe more," Sherlock replies, studying the statue's face. "Pleasing," he says. "Hardly Michelangelo, but nonetheless a fine example—"

"No, you _cannot_ take it home to Mrs. Hudson. Money, Sherlock. If we have to run—"

"I wasn't thinking of Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock admits. "I was thinking of myself. Sometimes the bloody skull just don't cut it, and you're not always home. She looks very approachable, don't you think?" Half joking, that last bit—but _only_ half.

"We're leaving," John says, taking Sherlock by the elbow. "We're leaving _now_."

Bronach doesn't appear again for another two hours, not until they're sequestered in a cozy Italian restaurant just off the main square. She's sitting a safe distance away, at the front of the restaurant, whereas they're nearer to the back. She spends most of her time studying a magazine, hair still hidden under her hat. Sherlock realizes now why Moriarty had chosen her: she's so unobtrusive that even a man of John's not inconsiderable intelligence wouldn't think to look twice at her. And they're in a relatively small place, run into the same strangers' faces several times a day.

"How long do you think we'll be here?" John asks, busy with his spaghetti.

"For as long as I'm content not to defy Mycroft again," says Sherlock, truthfully. He cuts a piece of ravioli in half and scrapes out the insides, frowning.

"I don't think we should stay for much longer," John admits, finally taking a bite.

Sherlock glances up at him, relieved. 

"That'll make the decision a lot easier, when it comes to it."

"What?"

"Knowing I won't be making you angry enough to storm off in a strange city."

John shrugs, breaking into a grin. "You'd know exactly where to find me."

"I forbid you to attempt those stairs on your own," Sherlock warns.

From her vantage point at the front of the restaurant, Bronach is concentrating without much success. She's got her BlackBerry out, has it up in front of her face as if she's web-surfing or texting somebody, but the truth of the matter is that she's got it in camera mode and is cursing to herself over its limited zooming capabilities.

"I'd have thought the paparazzi would be all over us," says John, unexpectedly.

Sherlock blinks at him. "I beg your pardon?"

"Mycroft," John says, making a gesture with his fork as he chews. "Moriarty. Both. They haven't got the benefit of London's CCTV network down here. They'll be using other means. Monitoring calls and texts to your mobile, and probably even to mine. Also, there's the stalker—stalk _ers_?—you mentioned in Brussels."

"I was mistaken," Sherlock says, which is partly true. There had only been one.

"You're rarely mistaken," John scoffs.

"Let's not forget your brother," Sherlock retorts. He's fast losing his appetite.

"No, let's not forget _yours_ ," John says, bringing them back on topic. "We'll have to assume the stalker is Moriarty's man. Mycroft wouldn't tip us off regarding his own."

"I'm afraid it's not a man we're looking for," Sherlock concedes. He can't lie forever.

"Ah," John says. "Well, a woman _would_ be less obtrusive. Who'd expect that?"

 _Not you_ , Sherlock thinks, annoyed that John often still fails to think outside the box.

"I've never ruled it out," he says. "But I was distracted while we were in transit."

John stares down at his plate. "You shouldn't let me distract you."

"I _choose_ to let you distract me. This food is appalling. Angelo's is better."

"The cheese at De Garre is pretty tasty," says John, hopefully. "And filling."

"Lead on," Sherlock sighs, pushing his plate aside.

Bronach is already up, paying her tab for a cappuccino. She'll be gone and three steps ahead of them, ever the perfect weapon: essentially harmless, but fast proving herself a prime candidate for the title of Lowest and Most Useless Life-Form on the Planet.

Sherlock unpockets his phone, finds Anderson's number, and creates a message:

 

_I'm pleased to inform you that you're  
no longer the sorriest excuse for a  
sentient being I've ever encountered._

_Also, pay attention, because I'm only  
going to say this once: thank you._

_SH_

* * *

It's the girl. John hadn't recognized her in the church, but he recognizes her now.

Why Sherlock isn't telling him what he knows is another matter entirely.

As they walk the short distance through busy streets, John tries to decide whether he's angry with Sherlock or not. It's entirely possible he'd been unfortunate enough to get a call from Mycroft whilst stuck on a boat with his _true_ arch-enemy's unusual choice of a spy. John can see the logic, though, the more he thinks about it. She's not there to pose them any real harm. She's just there to observe them and take photographs.

Moriarty isn't just obsessed. He's jealous. Indignant about the fact that anything—or, rather, any _one_ —else is capable of occupying Sherlock's attention so thoroughly, even after he's proved to Sherlock that he knows exactly how to please him.

John counts the stairs leading up to De Garre's entrance, loses track three quarters of the way up. Sherlock is just behind him, ready at a moment's notice to break his fall. John's not angry, he decides—not as such. Perplexed, yes, and maybe the slightest bit hurt. Sherlock is willing to sleep with him, but won't discuss matters of life and death.

That's it, he realizes. Death as a verb, something that _happens_. Sherlock can face corpses, any number of mangled limbs and dismembered extremities, but if he had to face the life draining out of someone he cared about, at his feet or in his arms—

Will they still be together when they're old? The thought comes unbidden, fills John with a strange kind of peace. His most immediate concern should probably be whether they'll even live long enough to find out if they can last. He stumbles on the top step.

"Careful," Sherlock says, sounding utterly relieved to have a reason to touch him.

No matter how hard he tries, John can't seem to convince Sherlock to try some local brew. He's on his third bottle of Duchesse de Buorgogne ( _pity she's dead, yes, but the beer they've named after her is ace_ ), and Sherlock is nursing a second glass of white wine. It's quite an occurrence to see Sherlock indulge in alcohol, and John hasn't yet managed to discern a pattern behind his decision-making. Likely there's none.

It hits John harder than a ton of bricks, right then: the beer's _strong_.

" _Do_ you think Harry would have liked it?" he repeats.

Sherlock breaks his reverie, takes a swallow of wine. "Liked what?"

"That ring," John says, swilling his beer. "In the shop. Rose-cut diamond, really old."

"It was two hundred euros," Sherlock reminds him, and John notices that his cheeks are faintly pink, his eyes brighter than usual. "You're the one on about money."

"I feel guilty," John admits. "Missed her birthday."

"Just as I thought," Sherlock says, triumphant. "That awful week you had."

"All right, then, genius," John says. "What day was it?"

"I'm not _that_ good," replies Sherlock, flatly, and John's sure he'd never have said that completely sober. "But I knew you'd missed her birthday and were eating yourself up inside. Save yourself some trouble and tell me about it next time, would you?"

"I might suggest the same," John mutters into his glass.

Sherlock goes very still, considers what's left in his glass, and decisively sets it aside.

"Errand," he says, rising. "Won't be long."

"But I've hardly finished!" John protests, reaching for his cane.

Sherlock sets a hand on his shoulder, keeping him in the chair.

"You're not going anywhere," Sherlock reminds him sternly. "Stairs."

 _Idiot_ , he thinks, watching Sherlock leave. They'll be lucky if they last another week, let alone decades. He knows that Sherlock had recognized his jab for what it was, and now he'll try to make amends by buying that ring for Harry, and John will yell at him for spending two hundred euros. Sherlock will refuse dinner, but he'll sit there and watch John eat, and then they'll fall into bed because they can't _not_.

The girl comes in thirty seconds after Sherlock's departure, and it doesn't take her long to spot John. She takes a seat in the corner: just far enough away to seem unobtrusive, but just close enough to keep an eye on him. She's got her BlackBerry out, clicking away. When the waiter approaches, she orders Kwak. Good taste.

John's mobile goes off, too loud in the quiet environment. The girl looks at him.

 _You should leave_ , the text says. _Now. MH_

 _Have you told Sherlock?_ John writes back.

_He's not responding. Then again, after  
the messages he got this morning, I can't  
say as I'd blame him for ignoring his phone._

_What messages?_ John replies, already knowing the answer.

_Dr. Watson, don't pretend to be as  
dense as my brother often likes to  
claim you are. Return. You might as   
well stay right where I can see you._

_I'll talk to him_ , John texts back. It's the lamest thing he can possibly say, but it's all he can really do. Sherlock will have other ideas, and John's ready to go along with them.

The girl watches him put his phone away, and then resumes clicking on her own.

"Hey," John says, rather too loudly, gesturing to her. "Come over here."

She shakes her head and stays put, but she pauses just long enough to hold the BlackBerry out at arm's length and take a picture of John. _Snap_. Too much flash for such a small gadget. What on earth could Moriarty want with so many candids?

 _REMINDERS_ , John's mobile informs him five seconds later.

 _Oh_ , _I'll bet_ , John thinks, deleting the message on sight.

The girl seems to dislike being watched while she drinks her beer as quickly as she can, so John makes certain to keep his eyes fixed on her the entire time. She leaves a five-euro note on the table, rises, and shoulders her bag. Only then does she walk directly up to John and stares him down with fierce determination.

"Tell him I _do_ see it," she says curtly. "And I hate it. Would _you_ want to waste your hols trailing around after two people so stupid for each other it makes you realize you'll be lucky if you ever find even a fraction of that for yourself?"

"You've been paid to do this," John says, shrugging. "It's just a job, right?"

She looks like she wants to slap him, but doesn't.

"I've got everything I need," she says, and leaves.

Moriarty's methods unfolds before John, stark in its simplicity. People with baggage, people who hold grudges, people who are too bitter to look away—these people are the easiest to snare, easiest to control, easiest to hurt. Had he thought Sherlock would be one of them? If so, what had he thought about John? Where did that leave him?

"It leaves you right where you are," says Sherlock's voice, right behind him. "I passed her on the way back in. That's Bronach. Doubtless she tried her best to charm you."

"I feel bad for her," John says. "She wants me to tell you that she sees it."

"Hindsight is twenty-twenty, as they say," Sherlock replies, offering John his hand. He's not carrying any bags or parcels, not visible ones, anyway.

"You didn't buy the ring, did you? If you did, you're sleeping on the floor tonight."

"Of course I'm not," Sherlock says as they emerge into the early evening. "And of course I didn't. That ring wouldn't suit your sister at all. She finds diamonds too conventional. You might try sapphire or opal. White gold, not yellow."

John waits until later—until after they've made a token attempt at eating dinner, until they're naked under the duvet and Sherlock is lying with his ear pressed right over John's heart—to mention Mycroft. Sherlock tenses as John draws breath to speak.

"We should pack up in the morning," John says, setting one hand in the middle of Sherlock's back, cradling his head with the other. When in doubt, kill with kindness. "Give Bronach the slip. Mycroft says go." Kiss his forehead, feel the guilt give.

"I know," Sherlock mumbles, his breath tickling John's chest. "He texted me, too."

"Why didn't you answer?"

"I knew you'd take care of it."

John sighs, resting his chin on top of Sherlock's head. 

"We're to return to London. Did he mention that?"

"He implied it," Sherlock replies. "I don't want to."

John considers this for a moment, with his eyes closed. He imagines his world entire, asks himself to what he'd really be returning, and instead finds it lying in his arms.

"Neither do I," he whispers, so low it's almost lost in Sherlock's hair.

And neither one of them needs to say why.

* * *

The car is a rusty blue Citroën with an engine on its last legs. With any luck, it'll get them as far as they need to go. Five hundred euros later, it belongs to Sherlock.

John arrives in a cab ten minutes later, just as he'd been instructed.

"Thérèse put up a real fuss," he tells Sherlock as the driver unloads their luggage. "I couldn't tell if it was because she genuinely liked us, or because we paid well."

"A bit of both, I suspect," Sherlock replies, paying the driver before John can even finish pulling out his wallet. "We had her at _bonjour_. Is that everything?"

"If you mean 'Did we forget anything,' then no, we didn't, and yes, it is."

"Right," Sherlock says, watching the cab speed away. "My next question would be, do you have a current driving license? Failing that, do you know _how_ to drive?"

"Yes to both," says John, cautiously. "Where is this leading?"

Sherlock knocks on the hood of the Citroën. "Just bought it for a very reasonable price. Safer than renting, completely off the record. Although I know how to drive, I don't currently hold a license. I'd rather we got our quick head-start out of here with someone legal at the wheel, in case we should be pulled over. Once we're across the border, I'll be happy to take over. I need less sleep than you do. We'll be sticking to the northern coastal roads, which are primarily rural."

John absorbs this information with admirable calm.

"The border?" he asks, finally. "Which direction did you have in mind?

"West," Sherlock says. "The border with France. We're heading to Saint-Malo."

"Good," says John, audibly relieved, watching Sherlock load the boot. "Because, I was going to say, unless you're also fluent in a handful of obscure Eastern European languages, the alternative would've been a pretty poor choice."

"O ye of little faith," replies Sherlock, winking at him. "We'd best be off."

"First things first," John says, his hand on the driver's side door. "Send whatever last texts you need to get out of your system, and then turn off your mobile."

"Sherlock considers telling Mycroft exactly what they're doing—in code, of course, nothing so obvious—but thinks better of it and texts Mrs. Hudson instead:

 

_If M. comes fussing, please tell  
him that we're well. No contact._

_SH_

 

"And yes, for the record, mine's off," John tells him as they get in the car. "It's in the boot with our stuff. I'd suggest you put yours there, too, just to avoid temptation."

"I've gone a week without it before," Sherlock insists. "I can do it again."

"Is that how long you imagine this will take? I hope you plan on reading the map, by the way, as I've no bloody clue how to get us out of here, much less to France."

"Yes, I'll direct you," Sherlock says. "Take the next right, and it's straight on till I say otherwise. We can take up to a fortnight if you'd like, although I wouldn't recommend that we take any longer, given the state that this car is in."

"Okay," says John, not sounding terribly reassured. "What's in Saint-Malo?"

"The ferry to Hull, of course."

"Roundabout way back's best, I guess. Mycroft will be furious."

"He's already furious. Besides, I'd like to give _both_ of them a little taste of not knowing where we are. We'll be back before they can get a solid lead, I suspect."

"I'm sure Bronach's gone now," John says. "She said yesterday that she'd got everything she needed. That ring of finality. I didn't like the sound of it."

"The worst thing that's to befall those photographs is that they'll become wallpaper in Moriarty's sitting room." _Or in his bedroom_ , thinks Sherlock, disgusted.

"I still don't like it," John sighs.

"Understood," Sherlock replies, setting a hand on his knee. "Turn right here. _Drive_."

Two incident-free hours later, they cross the border. John had pushed the speed limit the entire time, scarcely speaking, following Sherlock's directions with military precision. They stop at a travel center, fill up on petrol, and decide to grab lunch before moving on. Sherlock can't help but notice that John's limp is even more pronounced than usual. He takes John's arm until they're settled inside at a table.

"What do you want?" Sherlock asks. "There'll be no jacket potatoes, I'm afraid."

"Some kind of sandwich," says John, tiredly. "As long as it's got meat."

Sherlock chooses wilted salad for himself and a _croque-monsieur_ for John.

"Bad food in France," John says as it's set before him. "Who'd have thought?"

They eat without speaking for a while, atrocious though the food is, until John taps the table urgently with his fork, as if remembering something important.

"Cap Blanc Nez," he says. "Have you heard of it?"

"Of course," Sherlock says. "We'll pass close to it, given our trajectory. Why?"

"I've always wanted to see it," says John. "My dad used to rave about the stunning view from the cliffs just beyond the monument. He proposed to my mum there."

Sherlock stares at him.

"At a _war memorial_? John, your life really is the best kind of farce."

"Thanks, I think. How long would it take us to get there?"

"We'll drive a bit further on and spend the night outside of Lille," Sherlock says. "If we start early tomorrow morning, we should reach it by mid-afternoon."

"Where did _your_ parents meet?" John asks irrelevantly.

"Meet, or decide to spend their lives together? Two different things. They met in London, as far as I'm aware, but they got engaged in Paris."

It's John's turn to look surprised, even a little pleased, at the coincidence.

"Insufferably romantic, our parents' generation," Sherlock says with forced disdain.

"I'd say we're no better," John responds, his shoe tapping Sherlock's under the table.

With John asleep in the back seat—pillowed on his own coat and blanketed in Sherlock's—Sherlock drives until dusk, imagining years beyond his reach.

* * *

John wakes feeling warm and comfortable, with hazy memories of the previous evening. Sherlock had awakened him when they'd reached a hotel—large and commercial, not small and personable like Madame Reynaud's—and practically hauled him into the lift and up to their room. He spreads his limbs on the mattress as far as he can in both directions, concluding with mild alarm that Sherlock isn't there. While he's deciding whether or not to panic, the door opens with familiar exuberance.

"Breakfast is same old, same old, I'm afraid," says Sherlock, rattling in with just enough food for one: a banana, an orange, a croissant, and some jam.

John shoves the covers down, finding that he's been stripped down to just his boxers. He struggles to sit up, accepting the tray from Sherlock with a smile.

"Nothing for you?" he asks, offering the banana.

Sherlock eyes it thoughtfully. "Maybe when you're finished."

He lounges beside John while he eats, idly flipping through that day's edition of _Le Monde_. No sooner has John finished than both newspaper and tray are on the floor, and he's being kissed within an inch of his life.

"What's this for?" John gasps. Sherlock, still fully dressed, has trailed halfway down his chest by now, one hand already seeking John's hardness beneath the duvet.

"Good morning," says Sherlock, tugging down the covers, and takes John in his mouth.

It's flawless: no hesitation as he drives John distracted with teeth and tongue, no choking as John comes, too startled by the fierce suddenness of it to cry out. And then Sherlock's kissing him again, with the strangeness of John's own taste upon his lips.

"Up," Sherlock says, after they lie in silence for a while. "Get dressed."

"Who's playing tour guide now?" John asks teasingly.

"I said _travel agent_ ," Sherlock reminds him. "Not the same thing. And if you ever want me to do that again, you had better not compare me to Mycroft immediately after."

John untangles himself from Sherlock's embrace and goes hunting for his clothes.

They're on the road again twenty minutes later, Sherlock behind the wheel and John in the passenger's seat with the map open. It's fascinating, watching Sherlock drive—almost as fascinating as watching him sleep. His eyes, so seldom motionless, so seldom fixed on a single point, never leave the road ahead, nearly unblinking.

"Tell me about Harry," says Sherlock, abruptly.

John purses his lips. "I think you know all there is to tell."

"Tell me what she was like when you were younger."

John closes his eyes. "Everyone loved her," he admits. "She was the loveliest kid—that heartbreaking smile. Our nan used to say she outshone the sun with it."

Sherlock nods. "Did you get on?"

"We were inseparable," says John, softly. "Till our late teens at least."

Sherlock's chin drops towards his chest ever so slightly.

"What happened, if you don't mind my asking?"

John shrugs. "She started drinking," he says. "And worse."

"Worse?"

"Not now, Sherlock." The bitterness engulfs him, too keen for words.

Sherlock takes one hand off the wheel, reaches sightlessly, and takes John's.

They don't speak for the remainder of the drive. The map doesn't matter, because Sherlock seems to know where he's going. After miles upon miles of roadway dotted with farmland, trees, and village church-towers in the distance, the car park seems contrived, out of place. John finds the walk up to the monument somewhat taxing, and although Sherlock must know it, he doesn't reach for him. John is grateful.

They circle the obelisk, reading the names of the Dover Patrol. Sherlock stands to one side when he's finished, patiently waiting for John. The Great War has always seemed distant, at home in England and even in Afghanistan. John is not a superstitious man, but there are echoes here he can't account for. He turns from the names and joins Sherlock where the dusty track gives way to knee-high grass and shards of rock.

The incline is slight, and the vista opens without warning: a sheer drop down to the jagged shore and silver-grey ocean as far as the eyes can see— _until_. Until the cliffs on the far side of the Channel, white and striking in the distance. It feels like none at all.

"A clear day," says Sherlock, his voice overshadowed by the waves. "Remarkable."

"I can see why Dad loved the view," John says. "You can see home from here."

Sherlock hums, as if in disagreement.

"What?" asks John, turning to look at him.

"I can't see anything," Sherlock whispers, his eyes wide, empty. "I can't tell—"

It's John's turn to take Sherlock's hand. He squeezes it gently.

"We can't always know, Sherlock."

Sherlock opens his mouth, closes it again, and nods.

"This is all I know now," he says, lacing his fingers with John's. "All that I have."

"It's a start," John says, offering him a tentative smile.

Sherlock accepts it. The shimmer of his eyes, like the sea, is enough in return.

* * *

They reach Honfleur at nightfall.

The inn on the harbor-front is cozy and expensive. John can tell they're finally running low on cash by the way that Sherlock's lips tighten at the edges of the smile he gives the proprietor. Their room is on the ground floor, thank God: John isn't sure his leg can take much more. Sherlock fishes the essentials out of their luggage while John sits on the edge of the mattress and tugs off his shoes. Too many times, he's been here before; too many times, he'll return. _Gladly_ , he thinks. _Always gladly_.

When he looks up, Sherlock is at eye-level, kneeling before him.

He looks so lost that it's enough to steal John's breath.

"How in the world," Sherlock asks, "have we come to this?"

There are no words equal to the question, no reassurance sufficient to quell Sherlock's relentless _need to know_. There are kisses, though, and countless hints hidden in the flash of his throat, the hitch in his chest as John's fingers pass through his shirt-buttons now with ease and fan to frame his ribcage. Without sight _or_ knowing.

Nothing taken for granted, nothing ordinary. Sherlock unfolds beneath him without the slightest trace of regret, all impossibly long limbs and untamed hair. The hour they'd spent on the cliff, perched on a canon mooring, had been anything but kind. His nose and cheeks are wind-burnt, pink and prickling with a fine sheen of sweat as John touches him, discovers him, caressing everywhere he can reach without breaking away ( _his breath on Sherlock's skin; Sherlock's legs wrapped around his hips_ ). 

Music drifts in from somewhere outside, washing over Sherlock's swallowed cries.

When John follows him, finally, _finally_ , it's no effort at all, the knowing.

"Never mind," Sherlock murmurs, fingers twisted like driftwood in John's hair.

It's his smile and his alone that outshines the closest star.

* * *

Sherlock had half expected Baker Street to vanish in his absence.

As ever, though, it's John who makes the place real: made manifest as he turns the key in the lock, solid both his cane and his feet find purchase in the hall. 

There's an exclamation from behind Mrs. Hudson's door, and she's on them in seconds, hugging and kissing and crying. John first, and then Sherlock. She clings to him, demanding to know where on _earth_ they've been.

"To the four corners and back," he says soberly, handing her the somewhat rumpled bag containing the tapestry. "We thought this might make up for the damage to the wall," he explains, rolling his eyes as John gives him a stern look. "That is, _I_ did."

"There's no need to worry about that," Mrs. Hudson says, drying her eyes as she leads them up the stairs. "That brother of yours sent in some builders the day after you two left. Everything's sorted now, even the windows!"

The room is, indeed, pristine—much too pristine for Sherlock's liking.

"You've cleaned up a bit, I see," John says, grinning at her. "Thank you."

"Oh, _boys_ ," coos Mrs. Hudson, slowly pulling the tapestry from the bag. "You didn't have to. This will look absolutely stunning in my bedroom. Thank you _ever_ so much!"

"Don't mention it," says Sherlock, horrified, trailing into the kitchen. 

It's spotless.

"Amazing," John murmurs. "How did you ever manage it?"

"I was so worried," Mrs. Hudson sighs. "I didn't know what to do with myself. Oh, and those builders also cleared out Sherlock's bedroom, which I wasn't so sure about, but sure enough there were your brother's orders—"

The bedroom is devoid of anything that might once have identified it as such. A number of unopened boxes in widely varying sizes litter the floor, some stacked on top of others. Sherlock recognizes the manufacturers' marks on most of them and can't help but clap his hands to his lips. It's _better_ than Christmas.

"Maybe I've been a bit too hard on him," he says before he can stop himself.

"On who? Mycroft?" John asks, surveying the boxes. "Are you feeling all right?"

"Never better," says Sherlock, although that isn't quite the truth. He feels _different_.

"There's something else, too," says Mrs. Hudson, beckoning them out into the hall. "So much meddling. I would have shooed them off, _really_ I would have, but what with everything already paid for—"

John's room, too, but nothing so blatant as the emptying of Sherlock's. The old mattress, bed-clothes, and bed-frame are gone, replaced with something more...suitable. And Sherlock can see a number of his own effects embedded in the surroundings: some dry-cleaning draped over John's chair, the skull on John's bedside table, his lab books piled on one pillow. Mrs. Hudson's doing, he's certain. 

John's desk is taken up with an unidentified object draped in a sheet.

"I thought I'd unpack it for you," Mrs. Hudson says. "Since you bothered to ship it home from Bruges and all. It looks so delicate, Sherlock, and so _old_."

Sherlock tugs on one corner of the sheet. "I didn't—"

"Goddamn it," says John, quietly, as the sheet slips away.

Saint Catherine, with remnants of faded gold paint in her hair, her robe a stripped and muted shade of rose. In place of her missing hand, a new one fashioned in silver—no, wait, white gold, what with that burnished cast—palm turned outward, a sacred heart emblazoned in blue. A three-carat sapphire, faceted and flawlessly set.

"Yes, of course," says Sherlock, tonelessly. "Thank you."

Mrs. Hudson pats him on the shoulders. "I'll let you two settle back in."

John curses up a storm as soon as she's gone. 

Sherlock regards the statue, tilting his head.

"Burn it," John mutters. "Unlike the flowers, this'll actually catch."

"It's far too valuable to burn," says Sherlock, reasonably. "I can talk to her when the skull isn't forthcoming. Also," he adds, firmly bracing the statue as he wrenches the replacement hand free, "you can take this and have it melted down, remade into a ring for Harry." He places the severed hand in John's palm, pleased with himself.

"We'll have to check it for bugs," says John, reluctantly. "And I mean both kinds."

"We'll never live it down," Sherlock murmurs, the pieces clicking into place. "He's made a scrapbook. Recorded our memories. Has them ready to be brought out at a moment's notice, for no one's eyes but yours or mine once the other is gone."

"Sherlock," John says, setting the hand down. "They're only pictures."

One look at John is enough to remind him of what he has—yes, even _this_.

It's his world entire, and it's enough.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[podfic] Drowning Man & Harbor, by irisbleufic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1426066) by [speccygeekgrrl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/speccygeekgrrl/pseuds/speccygeekgrrl)




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